Kukulkan
by PridakArbiter
Summary: Shadow of the Tomb Raider ended in the temple of the Mayan god Kukulkan. There is another temple, in the midst of a shattered empire, which is also dedicated to Kukulkan, Chichen Itza, the former heart of the Red Court.
1. Chapter 1

The day I died I'm pretty sure the greater world did not even notice. That kind of ambivalence was kind of expected. I wasn't actually anyone important. Sure I ran around, surviving disasters and causing them on a daily, or more realistically, yearly basis but the average person didn't actually know that.

Some upper crust academics might've heard of my father, after all, he was kind of famous for his hare-brained, borderline excessive, archeological theories. By extension, they might've heard of me, after all my survival and retrieval from the island of Yamatai was near legendary.

I had pundits and paparazzi after me for several months following that incident. I was the heir of a fairly large company, which had its talons in everything. This was typical for large companies, which dreaded being pulled under by a single mis-performing product. I just found that link irritating. After all, when the newspapers were constantly, for about half a year, unleashing articles comparing my ordeal on the island to the experiences of DC comics Batman or Green Arrow, it was beyond annoying.

Nevertheless, I digress greatly. This was the day I died, after all, and I really didn't have the time to lament my hand in life. It was a scarce small comfort that I would finally be avenging my father's death at the hands of Trinity. That was in itself bittersweet. I couldn't bring him back and something small gnawed at the back of my mind, urging me to try.

The Silver Box of Ix Chel, used in concert with its matching ritual artifact, the Key of Chak Chel, was supposed to be capable of remaking reality. Or more realistically bringing about the end of the world through awakening or harnessing the powers of the Mayan god, Kukulkan.

That in itself was the reason I feared I would die here today. Creation was on the line, Unuratu, the person who was supposed to sacrifice herself to arrest the ritual destruction was dead. There was no indication that her son could take her place, and that wasn't even an option I was inclined to consider since he was but a child. That really left one, solitary, option. I pushed it from my thoughts until I absolutely needed to face the ramifications.

I ignored the weight of the golden crown upon my brow, the mark of the Queen of the damned. Viridian feathers attached to a gold half-mask. The symbolism seemed important somehow. To confront, and stop the end of the world while wearing the mask of the sacrifice. It was like a cosmic battle, writ small. Man, or woman, in my case versus a god, hell-bent on devouring the world.

I slipped around a bush, laden with red berries, I spared a moment's glance at the berries. They contained both a potent pain-killer and seemed to possess coagulating properties, they had been a god-send to me throughout my life, especially during my time on Yamatai. There was something more to them as well, since there was really no way that berries with such properties laid undiscovered and unexploited in the modern age. They were impossible.

I pushed my thoughts on the weird berries from my mind and focused, catching the tailwind of Dominquez's monologue. Dominguez himself had been revealed as both the prince of the lost city, Amaru, high priest of Kukulkan, and high council of the Illuminati-lite, Trinity. This was truly a shocking turn of events, but not really. It made sense that my greatest enemy would also be the greatest enemy of the world.

"Kukulkan, protect us, guide us, help us reshape and create. Empower and elevate," Dominguez chanted loudly, seemingly oblivious to my presence. I slipped free from my bush, my rough knife slipping into the throat of one of Dominguez's serpent guards. Blood splattered my hand and he made a little gasp, clutching at my strong grip for a moment before sinking to his knees. I dropped to a crouch in the same moment, drawing a feather notched arrow free from my quiver, lining up a perfect shot on another of the serpent guards. The bowstring twanged as I released the arrow wobbled, due to my unsteady grip but still perfectly slid into the side of the serpent guard's helmet.

He dropped bonelessly, and I lined up another arrow, this one to fire straight at the back of Dominguez's head. The tendril of glowing yellow energy, which looked almost like solar light, which of course was impossible. I mean, more impossible than everything else perhaps. Of course, I knew the supernatural existed as far back as Yamatai, with Himiko and all that, but this was on another level.

The arrow disintegrated, not even piercing Dominguez's skin. Well, that was one plan out the window, I muttered softly, examining the almost yellow shroud that surrounded the high priest. My eyes followed it back and to one of the icons.

The icons! Maybe if I destroyed one it would dissipate the power? The next several moments were a bloodbath, a frantic adrenaline-filled combat extravaganza. I remembered splattering a serpent guard's brains with one of my ice-picks, in another moment prying an icon loose. An arrow embedded in my side, amid gasps for tainted air.

I ran out of arrows, having to resort to my rifle first, and then my pistol, each time, more and more serpent guards seemed to materialize. I was beginning to suspect that they might be supernatural as well, given the way they seemed to be no end to them. Dominguez himself seemed to shrug off every lethal strike I managed to give him. The hole closing within moments, allowing him to try and bring the ritual back to completion.

The deepening shadows meant he was close, the sun almost fully eclipsed. The air felt cold, far colder than it had any right to be. One last icon, I groaned, snapping the arrow in my side with numb fingers. The sensation reminded me of climbing Yamatai's ziggurats, but the sensation was not from cold, instead, one of the lacerations in my arm must've gone deep enough to damage a nerve. I kind of hoped that wasn't the case. However, how did that actually matter anymore?

The convergence was close. The ritual end was approaching where Dominguez could act to direct the remaking of reality, or a sacrifice could stop Kukulkan manifesting. The air felt oddly still, poignant as if I stood on the edge of a precipice. I lunged, dodging under the surge of light Dominguez threw at me, and the key of Chak Chel found his chest. His flesh seemed to resist, pushing back for a moment, and then it slipped through piercing his heart.

He groaned and fell backward. I could see his lips moving, what looked almost like broken hope flickering behind his eyes. The realization that he had been wrong, that perhaps his path wasn't the right way. Of course, I doubted that he actually had a change of heart, he just wanted some measure of peace in death.

"Protect Paititi. Please… please, Lara?" He whispered before his brown eyes glazed over with the film of death.

I stepped backward, away from the body, looking down at the glowing golden light now emanating from my body. I spared a long moment to look up at the eclipsed sun, orange behind a dark disk. I snorted in morbid amusement, wondering what this freak eclipse was going to mean for all the astronomers out there, specifically my old professors. I wonder what my father would've thought if he could witness this?

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked back. The scarred and ritually deformed face of the priestess queen of Paititi's protectors, the Yaaxil tribe, looked into my eyes. She was searching for something, some kind of reassurance. I remembered Unuratu's words, if she could not succeed, Crimson Fire would see it done. So be it. She carefully pulled the Key of Chak Chel, for an instant my fingers seemed to catch upon the hilt, almost as if my body knew what letting it go meant.

My hands raised to my face, feeling the golden mask upon it. It was cold to the touch where I expected it to be warm, from both extortion and magic solar fire. So be it. I spared another glance for the eclipse, mindful of the slowly tensing priestess beside me. I turned then, I knew that my eyes glittered with tears.

"For the world," I murmured. In a way, this self-sacrifice seemed fitting. I had set in motion the apocalypse, even if I had just waited it would've been set in motion anyways. The world overcome by deluge, earthquakes, and fiery hail. However, even if others would've destroyed the world without me, the initial destruction was very much my fault.

My mind flashed back to the little girl, hanging from the window, and a single tear rolled down my cheek, catching on the eye-piece of the crown. I did deserve death, just as she deserved life. I nodded to Crimson Fire, who relaxed slightly, guiding me gently but firmly towards a stone slab. A stone altar really.

I sat upon the edge, Crimson Fire's gentle push enough to push me back, until my weapons, my trusty shotgun, and rifle dug into my back. It was uncomfortable and a small part of me wanted to readjust. If I was to die, shouldn't it be as comfortable as possible? I did not move, the pain was a small penance.

Crimson Fire slowly, almost languidly, lifted the Key of Chak Chel, Mayan words, gibberish from her ruined face whispered beneath her breath. I could see the fading light glimmering off the obsidian facets carved in the athame. My mind flashed to combat, eyeing the knife. I could deflect her strike, rebounding it back into her chest.

I could fight my way out of Paititi, past the Yaaxil tribe. Maybe there was another way, maybe I didn't have to die here? I wrestled that thought down, there was no other way. The sun would start to move in a moment, moving away from convergence and then it would be too late. This must be undone. The actions I have set in motion must be undone.

I let my eyes slip closed. I knew that if I watched the knife descend I would not be able to resist fighting back. My will to survive was too strong. I breathed in, breathed out. I thought back to my childhood. The little structure I explored while waiting for my father to play with me. The little tea parties I had with my mother. Her smile, and my father's smile. I smiled. Maybe death wasn't so bad. White shores and silver beaches and all that…

The pain was so sudden I almost didn't notice it for a second. Deep and penetrating, I could almost imagine the blade nicking my spine. My eyes flew open despite my best efforts and I stared into the suddenly soft eyes of Crimson Fire. Such eyes… my own traced over the red and white markings for a moment, as darkness crept up the edges of my vision.

I exhaled, the sound a death rattle, and I could feel my body unclench, warm droplets rested on my face, and there was a brief tugging sensation almost as if something in my chest was stuck and then… nothing.

The smell was the first thing that seemed to register afterward. It was faint but overwhelming at the same time. It was the scent of animal fur, blood, and strangely enough lust. It was nauseating. I could feel my nose twitch and my eyes flashed open, lighting the room.

I mean that in a literal sense as well as figurative. Twin beams of what almost looked like sunlight stretched from my eyes to the dour stone walls around me. After a moment the light dimmed, returning me to semi-darkness. I lay on a stone table, but oddly enough it was a stone table I recognized. To my left was a throne, carved into the shape of a jaguar, and I was surrounded on walls inlaid with human bone.

This was a location I recognized, it was a place I had visited before. The question remained, what was I doing in Chichen Itza? I pulled myself to my feet, sparing a brief moment to look around the room, my gaze resting upon a misshapen creature. Those remains definitely weren't there before. I looked down at the creature, both human and inhuman looking at the same time.

Its skeleton appeared humanoid, but the skull was deformed, almost bat-like. Just what was going on here? I lifted my hands to my face, they were both covered in blood. Why wasn't I dead?

* * *

My hands rested against the altar for a moment as I got my bearings. Something flaked under my fingers and I looked down. Bloodstains rested on the altar, which I knew should be clean. I unclenched and re-clenched my own hands, the blood was still fresh, so it hadn't been from me.

For that matter what had happened? I shuddered, recalling the knife poised above me, my hands darted to the center of my chest, in between my breasts. I didn't care that the elaborate Queen of the damned finery was getting stained by the blood on my hands. For a long, tense moment, I was filled with an irrational fear that there would just be a void where my heart was.

A cavernous hole, straight through the fabric of my green tunic leading to an empty spot where my heart should be. It was irrational, after all, I was alive, and there was no real way I could be walking around and, well, thinking if my heart was missing.

I relaxed a moment later, feeling the comforting if awfully fast, beat of my heart beneath my soiled fingers. Taking a deep breath I tried to relax, quiet my heartbeat. My breaths were coming too fast. I couldn't help but flashback to the moment before, again, and again.

Crimson Fire looming over me like a specter, bloodstained obsidian dagger in her hand. I inhaled, and the sound reminded me of my death rattle, the pain in my back. I sunk to my knees, balling my hands into fists. I sucked in another breath, my muscles felt too tight like they wanted to, no, needed to do something. I was shaking.

My back rested against the altar and I stifled a sob. What was going on? I did what I needed to do? Why was I still here?

One of my hands, still bloody, rubbed at my face with the back of my fist, scraping away the tears that threatened to fall. Through clouded vision, I could see the clear streaks they left on my hands. These bloody hands… I regarded them for a long moment, the weight of all those that I killed seemed to settle around my midriff like a millstone. I struggled to breathe.

Death. Why didn't I die? I started to sob in earnest then, great ugly wracking sobs. My whole body shook silently. One hand rubbed at my face, surely streaking blooding across it. The other clutched for my security blanket, my trusty pistol, one of the ones from Yamatai, so long ago.

After a long while my self-flagellation subsided and I was able to think clearly again, albeit in a rather stilted manner. The first question, which I still had not answered was, why was I in Chichen Itza?

I looked up then, still wiping my face free of tears and with undoubtedly red eyes to scrutinize the room. For just a moment I even doubted this was Chichen Itza. For one the jaguar throne was actually red, and a lustrous red, when it should've been more mottled. I climbed to my feet, again examining the altar. The blood on it was not fresh, it was at least a couple weeks old. At least that was my estimate from the way it flaked under my fingernails. There also was the matter of the lights.

There was supposed to be a bare yellow lightbulb with clearly visible wire. That was not the case, instead, a torch burned in the corner, casting the room in a warm glow. There was also no metal grate which had been added to separate tourists. This was either not Chichen Itza, or… I pushed that thought away. I would handle that thought when I was good and ready.

I walked around the altar, my boots making nary a sound. If I had been quiet enough to stalk a jaguar in its own habitat, you can be bloody sure I was quiet as a mouse in a stone room. It was not wise to make noise within these ancient tombs. Especially, not when I had my doubts this was even a place I actually knew.

I crouched by the shriveled skeleton. It was dressed in red cloth, and the canines and snout were clearly elongated. Inhuman. Jewelry, gold and red silk draped its form. I pulled on the skull, twisting it towards me. Whatever this thing was, it was not human, and probably never was. It wasn't like the Yaaxil tribe or the samurai on Yamatai that played at being inhuman purposely, this thing was not human.

It was a little bigger than a human skull, much more solidly built, reminding me of almost a Chiroptera skull, if that had somehow fused with a human skull. I lifted a drooping, desiccated arm, feeling the folds of stiff skin around it. What the bloody hell?

I pulled the arm straight out, letting the arm extend, I could feel the dried out ligaments snap from the sudden swift movement. A part of me, the university part, quailed at so roughly handling an archeological find. The other part, which was way stronger, and which I probably got from my father, was more like, we need to figure this out now, get with it, Lara.

The thing had wings like a bat. Okay, I officially had no idea what this thing was. My eyes darted back up to the skull and the elongated canine fangs. Could it be? No way, that wasn't possible, I thought stubbornly. Except, maybe…

All right, this is what I knew. I was in a Mayan pyramid. I was in what appeared to be a sacrificial room, which might be in Chichen Itza. The Mayans regularly sacrificed live victims to their gods, because the gods needed human blood to survive. This thing was partially bat, and with fangs like those… was this some kind of ancient Mayan vampire god? Vampires were real?

I snorted, dropping the grimy remains. My lips twitched, there was no way that was true. This was as absurd as the ancient aliens theories. A little hysterical giggle escaped my lips. After my breakdown, this was just too much. Vampire gods. Really?

My amusement was arrested by the sudden sound of boots scraping over loose stone tiles. My mind immediately flashed to Trinity and then to the Yaaxil tribe, and then to vampires. Yeah, no way was I just going to stand out in the open. I jumped up, leveraging myself into the spot between two ceiling pillars as if this were a movie. My core burned after a moment from the exertion, but I didn't fall. Guess all that rock climbing core training I've taken for years helped in these kinds of absurd movie-esque scenarios.

"Can't believe Dresden wiped out the whole court," I heard a deep male voice speak, around what sounded like a cigar. His accent was Texan, which was surprising, Trinity mainly recruited from Europe. A moment later I shook my head slightly, mindful of my position, just because there were people in boots trooping around some old ruins didn't make them Trinity.

Of more importance, who or what was Dresden and what was a court?

"I can hardly believe it either," another voice, much younger said, "It's like something right out of legend."

"And not the nice kumbaya kind either," the older voice grunted after a moment, "Heard he made some kind of deal with Winter, which would explain some."

Two men in tattered grey cloaks swept into the room, right under me, both had swords strapped to their sides. One ruffled underneath his grey cloak for a moment before pulling free an electric torch, shining it around into the corners of the room.

"Well lookie here," the older one said, "Who's this? Hmm, looks like it tried to make a circle."

He stepped over to the remains, prodding it with his foot, "That curse must've been mighty powerful, chewed right through the connection, burning out this circle. See the rune there? This was a mighty powerful ward this thing was hiding behind."

"Who was it then?" The younger said stepping over to the elder, "Thought we accounted for the bodies of all the big names?"

"Just the Lords of the Outer Night, and most of the nobles, we still haven't found the ol' red king anywhere yet."

My muscles were starting to burn, I hadn't really trained for this kind of stupid stealth aerobics. I silently dropped to my feet, landing with barely the sound of a feather falling.

Crunch. My boot scraped across a stone as I made to leave the room and conversation, which was admittedly quite interesting, even if I didn't understand any of it.

Both the men in grey turned quickly, they seemed almost as high strung as I was. For a brief moment, we both seemed to take in the appearance of each other. The younger one looked Hispanic and had just the bare spatterings of a beard. The elder had a deep black mustache and a cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth. He clutched a long staff in one hand. It made him look like some kind of wild west take on Gandalf, to be honest. The other had what looked to an actual bonafide wand in one hand, at least it was an ornately carved stick, while his other hand was already grasping for his sword's hilt.

I wondered what they made of me. I was still in my Queen of the Damned ensemble. Gold and viridian crown-mask, and feathered green tunic.

The elder's eyes bulged and the younger choked out, "Red Court!"

The younger one thrust his hand forward, a word upon his lips, "Agni!"

And fire bloomed, from the tip of his wooden wand.

It was a testament to my fast-twitch reflexes that I didn't get turned into fried Lara. Or really, if I was being honest it was a testament to all my long, very long, experience reacting to the barest shred of stimuli. Minute shifts in rocks beneath my feet, jump. The slightest twitch in an enemy, strike.

That was how I avoided the stick turned flamethrower. I was lucky that where I dropped down had a convenient doorway next to it for me to duck into. Even then I felt blisters form on the back of my neck from the intense fiery heat. For a moment I allowed myself to speculate exactly how useful a flamethrower would've been during my myriad adventures. The answer was, of course, very useful.

That line of thought didn't actually help me right now, though, so I thrust it away. The torrent of fire was still ongoing, whatever they had fueling it, they didn't seem too worried about running out. I refused to believe that there were honest to God mages running around the world. Oh sure, I'd seen feats of clear supernatural power, but those were usually by clear supernatural beings. Not perpetuated by some bloody Texan Gandalf and a Witcher fan.

I frowned, Agni might also mean a certain Hindu god of fire…

Not important! I chastised myself harshly. I could continue down this hallway, but already I could see it became swiftly dark, there were no working lights, I could see fragments, burst lightbulb glass on the stone floor, but no indication of where it led. Actually, didn't I have a flashlight in my satchel? My hand groped for my side as the torrent of flame started to die down.

The edges of the doorway were red hot, the stone and mud cement running like water. He better hope that there wasn't anything under this floor, because the whole integrity was completely shot with that kind of heat.

I clutched my silver River Hawk pistol. Good old River Hawk saved me a mite or two when all else failed. It was a real pain to shoot in the beginning, the recoil enough to send lances of pain up my arm, but now after so much practice, it felt perfectly natural. It probably helped that it really worked well against Trinity soldiers with helmets.

I stepped out of the doorway, I could smell burning rubber immediately. Yes, that floor was immensely hot.

The younger man gawked, "It's still alive?"

The elder scowled, dropping what appeared to be a dead electric torch, he had one hand raised towards me, and I had half a moment to marvel at the truly impressive handful of rings he was wearing when the air seemed to ripple.

"Nathair!" yellowish beams of light seemed to dance from his rings, sailing towards me. I ducked below, hissing as my knees burned from scraping against the smoldering floor. My mouth was half-open, ready to shout that I didn't even know who they were, but I bit back my exclamation.

They had opened fire first. It reminded me of back on Yamatai, giving up our pistol to the cannibals on that island. Always negotiate from a position of strength. Now, I had no idea whether these people were connected with Trinity but based on the fact that they were here right when I was awakening? I wasn't going to take chances. I vaulted away, pushing off my knees and diving behind the altar's raised dais.

The yellow serpents splashed into the wall, almost seemed like they wanted to curve back towards me but then dissipated.

"Are you with Trinity?" I decided to call out, despite my misgivings. My voice sounded more hoarse then I had remembered it ever being. I didn't spare any more thought to my voice, if I was going to escalate then I needed to know now.

"Trinity?" The older one muttered, breaking whatever he was muttering under his breath.

"British? There are British vampires?" The younger said, in what sounded like stupefaction.

"I'm not a vampire!" I called back, even as I could hear their footsteps approaching me from either side, one coming from each side of the altar. I clutched at my River Hawk. Was I really going to need to escalate again, so soon?

"Sure," the elder one sounded amused, but his following words were measured as if his mind was reciting something else, "Can't say I haven't heard that one before, let me ask, how exactly did you escape the bloodline curse? Wiped out the rest of your kind here, bloodsucker."

So here I was, evidentially cornered by two wannabe Van Helsing's, who clearly thought I was some kind of ancient Mayan vampire. I sighed, it was the clothes, wasn't it? Why couldn't I ever wear nice things? I pushed away from the stupid thought that stripping might make them lose their obsession.

"I actually have no idea what you're talking about!" I yelled back, watching for a moment until I could just see the shadow of the older man, illuminated by the torch behind him, and then I vaulted into motion, even as he seemed to raise his unsheathed sword to intercept. It almost bisected me, but I twisted in mid-air in an almost supernatural display of dexterity. My trailing foot came round, hitting the flat of the blade with the flat of my boot. It fell to the ground with a loud clatter. I could almost feel a shock travel up my leg from the impact as if I had just roundhouse kicked a cement pillar.

That hurt far more than it should've. Despite that setback, I hit the ground behind the man deftly, twisting at the same moment into a scissoring takedown. My good leg sliding behind both of his and my other leg slamming into his chest. He grunted, his long wooden staff flying free to join the sword as he flipped over backward.

There was a meaty thud as first, his back slammed into the stone floor with no small amount of force and then his head bounced off it once. I pushed him off my leg. Good job Lara, my guilty conscious decided to compliment/nag me, how long has it been since you chose to make a non-lethal takedown? I inhaled shallowly for a moment, pushing that thought aside before snatching up the long silver sword.

Or at least I tried too. My flesh seared, literally burning as I tried to grip the blade. My stubborn Croft arse held onto it a moment longer before letting it go, not able to stand the smell of scorched flesh anymore. The mix was nauseating all over again, burnt blood and burnt flesh. My hands flickered white, almost gleaming with the same inner light that had possessed Dominguez, but when it abated my hands were still ruined.

"Aard!" the other, who I had somehow managed to neglect shouted. I had barely time to turn before, I was launched into the wall headfirst. Even so, I managed to twist in midair, managing to turn enough that my side only hit the wall instead of my whole face. I felt a long broken shard of a tibia bone spear through the flesh between my thumb and hand.

I bit back a hiss as the new blood added to my already stained hands.

"Back!" The man brandished a crucifix my way, a little silver crucifix with a tiny golden figure of Jesus on it. Did he seriously actually think I was a vampire? I pushed myself to my feet slowly, several of my headdress's viridian feathers were bent. Another fluttered down, coming to rest softly on the tiled floor.

"Not a vampire!" I replied, hissing the words due to the pain, which probably didn't help my case any.

"Then why did you attack?" He accused. He now stood over the body of the other man, almost seeming to circle him. Beads of sweat ran down the side of his head, gathering in his short black mustache. I snorted, shaking my pistol in my un-bleeding hand.

"You actually attacked first, if you would care to remember," I replied snidely, before adding in a soft but still sharp voice, "You both are lucky I decided to even try diplomacy."

The man's eyes glimmered with anger but he held his tongue, so I continued, "As I asked before, are you with Trinity?"

Several emotions flashed over the man's face, before he settled on, "Like the Holy Trinity?"

I was about to reply when I just barely caught the glimmer of triumph flit over his face. What had I just fallen for? What had I missed?

I could barely hear his shout over the absolutely massive column of fire that blasted out from his wand, straight towards my position. Of course, I didn't just stand there like a blasted idiot and try to tank a literal flamethrower, instead, I threw myself to the side, back towards the altar, just narrowly avoiding the pivoting flame.

I felt the flames pass overhead, even as the tiles heated painfully under my hands. I had barely a moment to remember what I had thought about the heat earlier before I felt the floor began to give. I frantically grabbed for my climbing axes, but it slipped through my scalded fingers.

I also had a brief moment to recall that all of Chichen Itza was built atop an enormous underground cenote.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1.3

For the non-geologically minded, a cenote is basically a sinkhole, which is also in the process of becoming a sinkhole. The ancient Mayans regularly offered tribute and libations to the sacred cenote north of Chichen Itza's civic precinct. That's all well and dandy, I thought, as my inner monologue managed to catch up with my racing thoughts, but why was that so important?

The sacred cenote's system of caves and underground streams stretched throughout subterranean caverns underneath Chichen Itza proper, specifically under the main pyramid to Kukulkan. The reason why all this introspection was necessary was to currently explain why we were falling.

More specifically, why the whole pyramid's inner chamber seemed to be collapsing into pitch blackness. This was unusual in itself since I was fairly sure that while the cenote was under Chichen Itza, there should've been another, smaller, pyramid under this one.

The moron with the flamethrower stick shouted, and the flames finally cut off, I caught a glimmer of pale blue light off to the side, but my attention was elsewhere so I wasn't able to devote any of my attention to it. My fingers, slick with blood, both mine and others, slipped on the superheated stone. I screamed as my fingers gouged into superheated, semi-liquid, brick cement. All right, what was with this place and abusing my poor digits?

I slipped, falling in seemingly slow motion down into the darkness. My other hand finally caught around my climbing axe and in a frantic, near frenzied motion, I hurled it towards a solid looking pillar just under the collapsing floor. It was sheer coincidence that pillar was under my two overly trigger-happy assaulters.

The rope and stainless steel toothed climbing axe slammed into the pillar with the sound of metal on stone and for a moment it seemed to catch, swinging me down towards the far wall.

Dust rained from the ceiling over the pilar, and tile careened of my axe, slipping from the ceiling above.

Shite.

As I tried to pull myself up the fraying rope, I heard a sharp crack above, and a long jagged line snaked its way up the pilar to where it clung to the ceiling above. This was going to suck… I had a moment to act, I shifted my core, kicking with my legs and swinging towards the nearest wall while at the same time directing my free axe towards it. I just needed one, maybe two swings and then I'd be close enough that I could make the jump.

I swung back and at the apex of my swing away from the wall was where my Croft luck failed me, the pilar shattered, I could see from my vantage point where my thrown axe had lodged in an obvious fault point above, but that couldn't really save me now.

The pillar shattered into several chunks, cracks propagating over the ceiling, which was the floor for my two accosters above. I heard a startled shout, I didn't bother to verbalize what I was thinking about those two in either the real world or in my mental voice. Suffice to say, if I said something, it would definitely be rather less than perfectly polite.

I fell.

In the brief moment, before I impacted whatever bottom was on this thing, I lashed out with my climbing axe again, but it bounced off the slick, rapidly natural limestone walls. Another point in favour of this being a cenote, I suppose.

I hit the water below hard. I had hoped there would be water down here since it was a cenote and all but you never really knew with old tombs and ancient ruins. For all, I knew this…

My thoughts stilled as I suddenly registered that this was not water. The taste was too salty, almost like iron, and when I opened my eyes they stung.

I was in a sinkhole full of blood. Ignoring the faintest scratching of panic which threatened to claw at my mind, I focused. A moment later I blew out a bubble, feeling it escape down my chin. I followed it diving upwards, glad I hadn't just decided to swim up, which would actually have led me further down into the cenote.

I was as blind as a bat, with the blood forcing me to keep my eyes shut, but I was really tempted to open them when I brushed against something solid, floating in the water with me. The slimy sensation of short waterlogged hair met my probing fingers. What was this? I ignored it, pushing upwards, feeling my lungs begin to strain from the lack of oxygen. At least with all the blood there was unlikely to be anything living down here, I comforted myself with an idle thought.

Of course, my mind, being what it was, immediately shot down that thought. Well, if there was an animal in the water, that meant that there might be other things thrown in, and sacrifices as well, or other things that had fallen into it.

Sacrifices were more likely because this was the cenote below Chichen Itza, animals would really have a hard time reaching it. My arms, outstretched in front of me, met with another hairy thing, I pushed it aside, feeling another and another under my fingers. I really, really wasn't liking the idea of whatever this was. Thankfully, I didn't need to endure it for a moment longer as my head finally broke through the surface, allowing me to see where exactly I was.

Dust continued to fall from above, and occasionally rocks and other debris fell from the darkness above. There was a single solitary, and weakly-flickering, torch which illuminated a fading mosaic pressed into the only wall I could see.

That mural, which I really wanted to examine in more detail, utterly paled in comparison to the rancid stench surrounding me. I was reminded of the horrific pits and disposal chutes in Paititi and the cold room on Yamatai. This was the reek of rot and lots of it. I floated in the water, one hand grasping a corpse. One corpse of many.

Waterlogged and rotting near humanoid creatures, as far as the torch illuminated floated belly down in water the color of blood. Pale yellowish fluid leaked from their mouths, which were set with a rictus of agony. Or their faces had what I assumed was a rictus of agony on their bat-like faces. I swallowed back bile, looking at empty black eyes, distended rotting bellies, and disturbing visages.

I pushed forward, kicking with my legs, shoving the bodies out of the way slowly as I made my way towards the mural, which I could see had a little solid pathway next to it. Bloody water flowed through two rough stone troughs under a heavy stone door. There was no way I would be able to slip through under the door. I looked around, gaze flickering over the dead… vampires… as far as I could see in the gloom. This was not good.

I pulled myself up onto a slightly more floatable and somehow cohesive raft of bodies. Bodies really shouldn't be this cohesive, they should be kind of floppy and making a raft out of them should be like trying to make a raft out of bars of solid soap, or something like that. I shook my hands trying to get some of the blood from them and stop the stinging.

I really wanted to avoid getting some kind of bloodborne infection from all my adventures. I vaguely recalled the very awkward questioning after Yamatai when I set up an appointment to be tested for bloodborne pathogens after my return from Yamatai. The paparazzi somehow got wind of that and machinated a completely different reason why I needed to get tested. Of course, some of the speculation was on point, since it wasn't like either Sam or I had spoken about the blood pool.

With burnt and bloody fingers, I carefully balanced myself on my floating raft and eased open my satchel. The raft wobbled a little and I froze, concentrating on keeping my balance. I really didn't want all my stuff to end up in the water. Cenotes were well known for being practically bottomless.

I plucked a single red berry from my stash, paused just a moment to try and wipe some of the grime that my fingers gave it on my sash, but it was really a lost cause, I shrugged shallowly and ate it, the sour taste mixing with the irony taste of the blood already in my mouth. It tasted kind of like blood and vomit mixed together. Not a pleasant combination by all means. I grimaced, forcing it down. I was going to have to take a whole battery of wellness guaranteeing tests when I got back to my manor if I ever did.

My head snapped around, as I heard a splash and I hastily re-secured my satchel. Being in such a tomb, and it really was a tomb, was nagging at my nerves. Leaving me in the constant high-strung state which I had needed to survive my adventures.

Oh, it was Mr. Witcher and his friend, Texan Gandalf, who still looked unconscious. Witcher was floating on the surface, clutching at the now bloody grey cloak of his friend. He looked exhausted, and he wasn't even swimming right.

Against my better instincts, I decided to try being courteous again. I unhooked my climbing axe from my belt, which is where I returned them to near instinctively at this point, and after making sure it was tied to a length of rope tossed it into the gloom towards my probable enemies.

"Grab the rope!" I called loudly, causing the man to start awkwardly and start coughing violently as he inhaled some of the bloody water. Nevertheless, his free hand grasped the rope strongly, right before his eyes panned over to where I was before he twitched violently.

I snorted a little on my breath in amusement, thinking to myself, I suppose I must look rather dreadful. Tattered Queen of the Damned garb, absolutely soaked with blood and this pale yellow slime. Also, I was currently standing on top of a rather dubious raft of dead bodies, even if they didn't look quite like human bodies. The pain in my hands was already abating as a result of the berry I consumed.

"Don't be an idiot!" I elaborated, for the man's benefit, "Why would I throw you a rope if I wanted to kill you?"

He actually seemed to pause and think about that for a moment, and then seemed to mentally shrug and tighten his grip on the rope. That was where I ran into the first flaw in my brilliant plan. If I pulled on the rope on top of a floating platform neither of us would really go anywhere.

I cast my gaze around the room again, looking for better and closer solid ground then beside the door. A moment later I paused and re-panned my gaze. What was that?

A giant ornate throne sat upon a pedestal half-submerged in the middle of the cenote. It looked like it was carved from a solid chunk of ruby, which made no sense that I missed it before. What was even more disturbing was the withered husk that rested atop it, clad in red silk and golden ornaments, it looked practically mummified, which should've been impossible surrounded by this much humidity.

The throne by far was more striking, hummingbirds and jaguars and what looked maybe like an iguana were carved in flowing shapes upon it. The animals stood rampant and below, on the base, which was partially obscured, there were effigies of shriveled humans, weeping and misshapen. Rivulets of bloody water flowed up the throne and merged seamlessly with the arms of the throne. Great bloody cracks wept blood all along the seat of the throne, and back, which was curled over like two great dragon wings.

Of all the horrors I had seen… this was one of the first times where I was at a loss to properly put to words what exactly this was.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 1.4

I will not deny that my first urge was to sit on the throne. Or well, not really sit on it per se, but go over and examine it. The designs were exquisite, not at all like other ancient Mayan art. For instance, the red jaguar throne in the room far above was a piece of thrift store junk compared to this throne.

Carved animals, monkeys, serpents, jaguars, capybara… The last example actually managed to knock my concentration back on track. What was a capybara doing in Mayan art?

That, of course, brought my attention back to my two, also trapped, companions. I tugged on the rope, experimentally, just to be sure that my earlier hypothesis was correct. The pile of bodies that I was currently awkwardly balanced on rolled, forcing me to try and walk along with it.

My boots squelched from all the water, and I could already feel that in a few hours they would be quite uncomfortable. The calluses already on my feet would ensure that it wouldn't be much worse than uncomfortable, but it would still be an annoyance.

My eyes flickered around the sheer limestone walls, looking for something else to anchor my rope to besides the throne. I was still going to go over there and check it out, but not until I pulled these two to safety. Finally, my gaze returned to the torch, still weakly burning. It was burnt down but still gave off unnatural light. Tinges of green interspersed with the ordinary orange-yellow hue.

I hefted my other axe, weighing it, calculating the distance. The bracket the torch rested in looked like it might be strong enough. It wasn't metal, but it looked like the stone was embedded in the wall. I twirled the axe once and then snapped my arm forward, sending the axe flying towards the muraled wall and torch.

With a deep echoing clang my stainless steel axe impacted the wall and slid down perfectly on top of the torch, which immediately popped out of its stand, hit the slight gravel below it, and bounced into the tepid water with a hiss.

The light fled with it. I had barely a moment to say anything in the sudden pitch-black gloom before a weak blue light sprouted from the cross the still conscious man brandished out of the water.

The echo of his tired voice, "Lampa" died away gradually, bouncing back and forth in the dark cavern. Polish, I bit back an amused snort. Was everything Witcher or Polish themed for this guy?

I tugged on the rope, the rope wrapped around the wall bracket, courtesy of my exemplary throw and I grinned, feeling the drying blood around my face crack slightly.

I slowly bent down and spared a moment to secure one of my axes to my belt. I barely spared a moment to grimace at the fraying fabric, another thing I needed to remember before I did any more aggressive exploration.

With the rope leading to the two men newly secured I began to tug on the rope attached to the bracket, pulling us towards where the light had been before. The strange blue light continued to emanate from the man's cross, which I was thankful for since otherwise, I'd have to rely on my eyes in the pitch black. Not something I was too keen on repeating.

Crawling up the body disposal in near darkness a day or so ago was bad enough. I shook my head, dispelling the memories of the flies, maggots, and body fragments I had to climb over. Unlike there, I didn't have to worry about somehow getting stuck and slowly starving to death, surrounded by the dead.

It was slow going. The metaphorical and partially literal sea of bodies around me made forward movement tedious and draining. My arms had to work to both pull us through unnumbered dead bodies but also push my erstwhile raft through as well all the while keeping my belly taut to keep from pulling something.

By the time I reached the little platform and muraled wall, small lines of sweat dotted my blood-soaked skin and left clear rivulets down my skin. The ground crumbled as I stepped onto it, the nearest third of a meter slipping down into the water with nary a bubble. The portion closer to the wall seemed sturdy for the moment and I planted my bloody boots there and proceeded to pull the two closer.

The blue light had steadily faded as I pulled them closer. The older man was still unconscious, but I thought I could see his chest rising in steady, albeit shallow breaths. The younger one looked completely exhausted.

I nodded to him and stretched out my hand towards him when I had pulled him close enough that his tired eyes flickered between the thin strip of land and me.

"Don't get cocky." I informed him quietly, nevertheless, the words still carried, his brown eyes shot up towards my own, which were still visible behind the crown of the Queen of Damned, "truce?"

He regarded me for a long moment, long enough for me to pull him close enough that I could reach out and grab the older man, which I did, seizing him by his lapels and hauling him onto the little platform of land.

"Aye," The younger finally replied, pulling himself to dry land where he flopped for a moment, breathing heavily before he closed his eyes and the light diminished. I took the opportunity to open my satchel, digging around in it for anything I could use to start a fire.

My current clothes were too ruined by the water to use as fuel for a torch, even though I did have both flint and steel. My hand scraped against something sharp in my satchel and I almost jumped, I was pretty sure that I hadn't actually stashed anything knife-like away recently.

A moment later my now slightly bleeding hand closed around the excruciatingly familiar form of the Key of Chak Chel. I stilled, suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings. The beating of my heart in my chest. The slow pop and hiss of the decomposing bodies resting around us. The unsteady breaths of the younger man and the shallow exhalations of the elder.

I pulled the Key free, and as I did, light flooded into the chamber. Just as the knife glowed with searing light the moment before I stabbed Dominguez with it, so did it glow now. It was as if an actual sun had come down from the heavens to light this deep place.

The chamber lit with light, and I had to turn my gaze away. The younger man grunted in alarm and I could see his raised arm, warding off the light now shining into his eyes. I used the moment to examine the chamber in more detail, noting the way the bodies, even partially exposed to the water seemed to smolder, burning away under the Key's light. The roof of the cenote stretched upwards, a titanic rook of limestone reaching over our heads until the very middle of the room, where there was a gaping hole.

Must be where we fell from, I mused to myself. I spared a moment to think about climbing out that way but disregarded it as an option of last resort. This would be a tricky climb just for myself, limestone isn't the most stable. I mean, it had plenty of really nice looking handholds, it was just that was all there was to it, it looked nice. More often than not, limestone would crumble unpredictably. Definitely, not a climb two wannabe explorers… I really didn't know what else they were supposed to be, vampire hunters?

That was probably it, I spared a glance for the elder vampire hunter. Yep, with a gut like that, I kind of doubted he was going to be able to climb. Sure, he still had other muscles and seemed pretty well built otherwise, but rock climbing emphasized arm and core strength not bench presses.

"The climb would be difficult for you," I softly informed the still conscious, maybe Polish, maybe just a Witcher fan. He just grunted and seemed to concentrate on his breathing.

I cast one last longing look at the throne, it really did look interesting. It would be an impressive archeological find, not one that could be ethically demoted to just a place in my office back home.

Stooping I knelt and began to remove my boots, I had to place the Key down so I could unlace them and the light immediately withered. Strangely enough, the light did not completely go out but lingered, softly radiating light like an anemic candle.

Pop.

The water nearby bubbled once. I cast a quick glance it's way, one hand full of laces the other half-stretched towards the knife. After a long moment, I returned to my task, slipping off my boots and the sodden socks underneath. While I didn't usually deviate from approved mountaineering footwear, these boots were just going to get too disgusting, too quickly. I pushed them aside, sending a few small pieces of primitive gravel rolling into the water.

I heard the younger man shift to my side, and a moment later the sound of water being wrung from cloth. A quick glance his way did, in fact, confirm he was wringing the dirty water from his grey cloak. I cocked my head to the side, regarding him. The cloak itself had a feature I hadn't noticed before, softly glowing silver runes appeared almost embroidered in the grey fabric. It was only due to the soft light that they were visible at all.

His face was gaunt, and despite a healthy-looking small black beard, deep lines stretched down from his eyes. His tanned skin, all that was visible, which was just his forearms, hands, and neck, was marked with pockmarked bruises. If my best deduction was correct, I suspected they were in a fight even before they met me.

"Well," The man said, shooting a tired nod towards her, "Since you wanted this truce. What exactly are you doing in this temple?"

"Chichen Itza?" I asked, mostly to confirm what I already suspected.

"Si," he muttered a little suspiciously, suddenly seeming just a little more alert.

"What a coincidence," I snorted, rummaging in my satchel again, removing a red berry, which I rolled in between my soiled fingers for a moment, "Just traded one temple of Kukulkan for another."

He rolled over, bending to check on his companion, he whispered a word, this time one I surprisingly didn't actually recognize and touched the neck of his companion, right over the artery in his neck. He was still for a moment before he frowned, but didn't say anything.

"A temple of Kukulkan, another one?" He asked, with what I think he thought was no small amount of tact. I could've laughed, it was obvious that he didn't trust me and was just trying to either by time or fish for more information,

"Yeah," I offered, finally putting the berry in my mouth, feeling the aches and pains which were just starting to build up again, dissipate back into the ether. I decided to throw him a bone. "In Paititi."


	4. Chapter 4

"Paititi?" He asked, brows furrowed as if considering something, "El Dorado?"

I arched an eyebrow behind my mask. That wasn't quite true. Paititi wasn't anything like El Dorado. Even though both were mystical and semi-mythical lost cities. Only Paititi had turned out to be a real city while El Dorado was still lost to the annals of time.

"Close enough," I grunted, scooping up the Key again with one hand. The burns had mostly faded, unnaturally quickly, even with the stalwart assistance of my precious berry stock.

"That dagger?" The Warden asked, shielding his eyes again as the light seemed to grow by an order of magnitude the longer my hands touched it. I was honestly just a little discomfited by it. I really hadn't had good experiences with the supernatural, at all. For the moment, however, this light was proving benign. I really didn't savour the idea of some Mayan god eavesdropping on my life.

I was comfortable in maintaining an Anglican approach to God. For all that I didn't attend church often. It was mostly my mother who pushed me to go, and after her death, I didn't have the heart to break away completely. Nevertheless, the idea that Kukulkan was real, meant I would really have to sit down and think about religion and my immortal soul at some point. However, that would certainly not be today.

"...what is it?" The Warden finished his question.

I regarded him out of the corner of my eyes, considering whether this needed to be answered or not. It was unlikely he would even understand exactly what the Key of Chak Chel was. In the event that he did, that would be further confirmation that he somehow worked with Trinity.

I got to my feet limberly, bare now, I had an urge that needed satisfaction. As usual, now seemed the best place to see it fulfilled.

"It is the Key of Chak Chel," I nodded to the Warden stepping towards the water. I was loathe to re-enter the cesspool I had only just crawled out of, but that throne…

I just had to touch it.

"Chac Chel?" The Warden stuttered. I could instantly tell he actually did recognize something about it. My free hand drifted down to caress my River Hawk. If he tried anything, I'd be ready. I had already mostly disregarded the idea that these two were connected to Trinity, both weren't the usual bruisers. Contemplacance kills, though, so I remained ready.

The Warden seeming to be rather oblivious to my internal murder drive, continued to speak, "I assume you mean the Mayan creation goddess?"

"Correct," I replied, almost absentmindedly. I barely stopped myself from launching into the connection I saw between Chak Chel and Kukulkan. Both were serpent gods, one of creation, one of rebirth. They fit together neatly, contemplating. The silver box of Ix Chel further contemplated the two. For Ix Chel was a goddess of childbirth. The box and the key were both symbolic, and so was their connection to Kukulkan.

I stepped forward, and the water steamed, blood seeming to boil under the effects of the light. I could hear a hiss from behind me, as the Warden scooted away from the water. The floating bodies seemed to warp, further deforming. Where before they seemed merely mostly inhuman, with various bat features. Under the light, their corpses deformed, twisting, becoming more animalistic.

I paused there at the edge eyeing the changes. Carefully, very carefully I toed the water, testing the temperature. There was something strange at work here, so I figured I'd forgive myself in the water was actually boiling and scalded my big toe.

To my shock, the water seemed quite pleasant, a perfect temperature, not too cold and not too hot. I stepped into the water, and pushed forward, ignoring the Warden behind me, who shuffled into a sitting position to watch what I was doing.

I heard him mutter, "What is it doing now?"

Part of me was kind of annoyed at being relegated to an 'it.' After all, couldn't he see I had breasts? The other part of me considered the whole vampire question. The whole chamber was filled with the floating corpses of what appeared to be vampires, leaking blood from over-bloated bellies and leaking pale yellow bile from mouths stuck in a rictus of pain.

In some ways, it was less disgusting than swimming through actual human bodies since these were clearly covered in hair and smell different. Still rotting, still rancid, but remarkably different. The scent of a human body is difficult to describe, and uniquely unsettling. It just gnaws at a growing sense of unease the longer you're around it, at least that was supposed to be the experience for most people.

I didn't enjoy the smell of human bodies by no means, but by the time I got out of Yamatai, and its literal mountains of offal and flesh, I had smelled all the dead bodies I ever needed to take care of any lingering hang-ups. I shoved a vampire's head with my free hand, slithering over the top of it like a snake. There was plenty of slime and water here to make my passage easy. Enough that I worried about not having enough pull and just sitting impotently, unable to get a grip until I died of hunger.

Actually, I looked at the bodies and water around me, I'd probably die of sickness first. Or becoming a human prune in the water, something like that.

The red carvings in the throne seemed to gleam as I approached, and I studied them more closely. The implications were disturbing. It showed what I assumed to be some kind of serpent god, and a related pantheon ruling over man. At least that's what I assumed it stood for. Another part, by the feet, showed something bat-like crouched over the body of a woman, teeth at her throat. More disturbingly, there was a small figure carved within the carving of the woman, over her stomach. It was a creature with bat-like features.

That imagery was clear and seemed to explain, maybe, where vampires came from. The rest of the imagery's symbolism was more unclear, there was a gate and humans. Rays coming down from the gods, illuminating man. Then below them animals, and below even them, more humans, but misshapen and distorted. One of these was the vampire carving, but there were others.

More perverted. Generally, I considered myself to have a strong stomach. I could crawl through sewage, refuse, and literal piles of dismembered human flesh. Some of these images, despite being mere carving, made bile gather in my throat. This was an effigy to some kind of depravity, beyond what even I had seen before.

Almost unbidden my hand reached up and grasped the carved steps of the throne pulling me up its front. The blood flowed over my fingers, up from the water, and into neat grooves in the chair. The desiccated mummy's face was locked in a rictus of horror, and as I peered at it I noticed traces of inhumanity. This had been one of the vampires as well, perhaps.

My eyes jumped again, and above it all, above all the gods, the carven image of a bat's face. Its eyes were red rubies and seemed to stare down at me, almost challenging.

Dimly I was aware I could hear screams and wails, shouts and the sound of blood being spilled. Animalistic grunting, and the sound of passion being fulfilled. Stone on bone, my pulse rushed in my ears.

The Key of Chak Chel burned in my hand. I snapped back to myself just in time to stop myself from drinking from the steps of the statue. From the fetid blood that flowed upwards, laced with green slime. I shuddered, avoiding locking gazes with the red ruby eyes again. I did not know exactly what it had just tried to force me to do, but I doubt it would've resulted in a good end for me.

I raised myself further out of the water, one hand now resting on the seat, the other held the glowing Key of Chak Chel. Its light shone down upon the corpse there, withered and secluded upon the seat. Its neck was girded in fine gold, and red silk bands around its waist. Various bits of fine gold, inlaid with precious gems were placed both on it and looked like they might've been inside it, beneath its skin.

The body twitched, sunken black eyes, moving to meet my own. This thing was alive. For a moment I did not move, merely waiting, almost unwilling to make the nest move, and then I slammed the Key of Chak Chel down into the thing's chest.

This might've been a bit of an overreaction was my first sheepish thought, as my athame pierced into the wrinkled emaciated flesh of the vampire.

It shrieked, as the glowing dagger slid between its ribs and continued downwards, carving its belly open.

"KUKULK-!" It screamed, and by screamed, I mean it _screamed_. I would never have expected such a withered looking creature to cause such a loud noise. Blood sprayed free from it, splashing into my eyes, my face, and my open mouth, over gritted teeth.

It clawed at my crown with withered claws, scraping over the gold, but finding no purchase. I wrenched the dagger sideways, carving another rent in the thing. May as well kill it now that I was committed. It was not lost on me, that the thing had literally screamed the name of the deity I was currently blaming for whatever translocation I was experiencing.

I smelled the musky smell of reptilian scales. The hot breath of some great monster. The flutter of feathers, viridian, and incarnadine. I both saw them and did not see them. They were both in the physical world and before my mind's eye. I could not distinguish between them.

The Key of Chak Chel clicked against the center of the throne's seat and slid easily into the interior with one smooth motion. There was a final wailing shriek, the mummified thing clutching at my throat, snapping rotting fangs before it seemed to unravel under the harsh glare of the Key, which suddenly burned with light.

The brilliant light seared the flesh from its bones, and I could see the great bloody rivulets gleam. The throne came undone next, unraveling into bloody fibers, flesh, bone and writhing sinew seemed to fall away from it in impossible forms.

Then all was still, the throne was empty, only withered and pitted bones remained. I spared a glance around the pool, spotting crystal clear water, and unnumbered bones littering the bottom of the cenote.

_So be it, Kukulkan,_ I murmured in my mind, _so be it._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Well," I heard one of the two murmur from all the way across the room, "I guess that is where the red comes from."

I ignored the comment, more focused on examining the throne for damage. With an idle swipe of my hand, I pulled the barely connected bones of the now-deceased creature off the seat of the throne. They glinted slightly as they hit the water as if the bones were metal instead of bone, but they sank below the surface of the water all the same.

The throne itself had barely changed, the bat's head on top looking somehow diminished as if it had worn away, but a remnant still remained. Likewise, the engravings on the side remained if similarly diminished. Where before the throne nearly leaked with supernatural menace, now it seemed cleansed. Purer, if I could say so.

The fact that the creature had somehow recognized me as Kukulkan was also another matter to ponder. I was already suspicious that Kukulkan, who was arguably real, had somehow transported me through space, and possibly time, to Chichen Itza.

I also had a nagging suspicion that since the withered thing had thought I was Kukulkan that the purpose I had been transported here was for precisely what I did. I felt some stirring of self-mortification that my very first interaction with a verifiable non-human had ended in plain violence. However, I doubted I would lose any more sleep than I already had since based on the engravings, these things had been anything but nice upstanding members of a greater society.

I pondered the throne for a moment. I was half tempted to sit on it, but the Key of Chak Chel was still stuck in the seat. Furthermore, the spot where it had slipped into on the throne was kind of… unfortunate. That was all I was going to acknowledge its location. I wiggled the Key a little. There wasn't very much give. I pulled with a little more force, careful about the blade. I knew from experience that obsidian fractured easily. It was sharp, almost peerlessly so, but only in the direction of the blade, any other at it would snap with almost negligible ease. An action that would send razor-sharp splinter fragments into its surroundings.

I pressed it downwards, perhaps with a little more pressure, it would click free? My hand slipped off the gold hilt, just slightly grazing the surface of the knife. Probably should've taken a moment to wash the vampire blood from my hands. That momentary slip was enough to draw blood, however. Just further vindication for my inner monologue on the practicality of obsidian ritual knives.

How much more could my poor abused hands take? Lacerations and burns, oh my. A single bead of blood beaded on the edge of my finger, I flicked it off onto the throne. I stepped down and away from the throne, placing my bloody hands into the water. The blood seeped away, diffusing rapidly into the now nice and crystal clear pool.

I glanced up and back towards my two companions of circumstance. The younger appeared alert, watching me with slightly narrowed eyes. The elder looked like he had finally awoken and was just watching me suspiciously. Just the faintest traces of two dual emotions could be detected on their faces, fear, and awe. The elder was staring at the throne, mumbling softly to himself with a half-glazed look. The younger's face twitched at something the elder said and I returned most of my attention to the water.

I peeled the blood-soaked green upper mantle from my body, leaving me in the tattered remains of the grey top I had been wearing when my airplane had first crash-landed, back before the whole end of the world started. My lower half remained covered in the green and gold skirt, since I didn't really have any pants, and there was no way I was going to undress here.

I regarded the upper half for a long moment, it was absolutely drenched in blood, and I almost didn't want to take it with me. Of course, the problems I had with it was mainly the red tri-cross over the navel on the lower half, the emblem of Trinity.

I splashed into the water, careful to stay on the small pathway that the clear water had revealed. The blood on my lower half peeled away, similar to the way the blood had trailed from my hands. I scrunched up my face in distaste. No matter how pristine the water looked now, up to a few cosmic moments ago it had been a cesspool of blood and offal.

I swallowed that distaste, crushing it down, disgust was merely a state of mind, not an actual reality. I ducked my head and upper body under the water, crown and all. For a long moment, I just waited underwater with closed eyes, then I surfaced, letting the water carry away most of the blood. I suspected what I really needed was a change of clothes and a shower but a brief dunk would be enough to make me less of a walking health hazard.

The water squelched in my garments in a very unpleasant way which I had experienced plenty of times before. No matter how much this was going to chaff I was going to power through, just as I always have.

"You're not a Red Court," the elder seemed to state more for his benefit than mine, watching me with critical eyes. He pushed himself to his feet, I noted with slight envy how the gathered blood seemed to run down off his grey cloak.

"If you mean these…" I splashed through the water towards both of them, bending down a moment to pick up one of the inhuman skulls from the submerged pathway. Coincidentally, it was the skull of the one from the throne. Flecks of gold still lined the fangs. I lifted it free, holding it aloft.

"No, I'm not," I spoke considering the thing in front of me. It seemed evident based on the age and prominence of the throne that they had some kind of connection to the Mayan gods. Of Camazotz perhaps? The Mayans did have a bat deity associated with vampire things, night and death, but I don't think it really fit. Camazotz also gave birth to monstrous bat beasts...

That being said, one of Ix Chel's interpretations, the Aztec one, had her as a cannibalistic goddess but these things were clearly not serpent-like, and this was a Mayan temple.

"It's like Ix Chel and Camazotz had children, for a certain definition of children anyways," I muttered aloud, looking at the skull. Yes, it was even more disturbing up close. Were there little Mayan pictographs carved on each tooth?

I paused for a moment to push the skull into my pouch, it barely fit and I was immediately reminded of the Key of Chak Chel, back in the throne. I paused for barely half a second and then continued on. One-fourth of my major life problems had been caused by pulling it out in the first place, best to leave it where it wanted to be for now.

The older man seemed uncomfortable, hand grasping for his side, almost by instinct, seeking a blade that wasn't there. He must've lost it in the fall. He breathed in deeply, seeming to center himself, squinting against the light emanating from the Key where it was embedded in the throne.

"Lady…?" He paused, trailing off almost seeming to ask for my name. Inviting me to supply it. There was a faint trace of tension in the air as if they both thought there was something damaging or threatening in asking me for my name. I found it strange.

For a moment, I almost replied flippantly, saying something like 'Queen of the Damned' or even 'The Outsider' as the borderline feral inhabitants of the island of Yamatai called me but I refrained. As amusing as either name would be the weight of either one was honestly still a little fresh. Funnily enough, after Yamatai, in both Siberia and South America the majority of my enemies knew me as Croft. The Outsider just brought to mind all the deaths of my friends on that island and the pointlessness of the whole thing.

While later I had even pretended I was unbothered by the title, it really had a lot of bad memories. Plus, that wasn't even what they were asking for.

"Croft," I decided to reply simply, I pulled my mask-crown from my face, revealing my tired features, "_Archeologist_."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Murals and Gods

"An archeologist?" They both shared a skeptical glance with each other. The older one just shook his head with an expression that just said, probably best not to argue with her. It was an expression I recognized from my university years when I had confounded fellow students and professors alike with my far-fetched theories.

Some of which were borderline something that would come out of the American "History Channel," for all that I tried to be realistic. It was with some vindication that some of those hare-brained theories I had actually proven to be true. Of course, I never went so far as to actually believe that Kukulkan, and by extension, the rest of the Mayan gods actually existed. I suppose maybe I should've been more radical.

"I gave you my name," I said dryly, shooting a glare towards them, "The polite thing to do is reciprocate."

The younger one clutched at his sword, eying me for a moment, then spoke, "Iglesias."

A Spanish surname, from actual Spain, as opposed to Spanish America. Interesting. I raised a brow, which they could both now see, and shot a glance at the other, older man.

"Warden Harvill," he growled, making a gesture to indicate himself. He seemed quite uncomfortable without either his sword or staff.

Iglesias's eyes flickered over my face as I approached, striding through the clear knee-deep water. He was evidently searching for something, but he refused to make eye contact. I frowned, how rude.

I indicated myself again with a thumb pointed back towards my chest, "Croft."

Warden Harvill's brow furrowed, looking me over, before finally asking "What does it mean?"

It was my turn to frown, stopping close enough I could look into his face. His eyes were tired, and frown marks looked permanently etched into his face. It was the face of a man that seldom smiled and was perpetually stressed.

"It means, daughter of Lord Croft," I elaborated slightly. I wasn't quite sure exactly what he was getting at, why he needed some kind of elaboration. I mean, I suppose, I could've interpreted it a little more literally and launched into an explanation that croft was a Scottish origin word for a small homestead. Or, if you went with the Lancashire dialect meaning, it was related to drying textiles by bleaching…

Or even the exact origin of my family name of Croft which heralded back to the War of the Roses as a Yorkist loyalist, who somehow managed to rise to lordly stature during the conflict. That was all deathly interesting, but it also wasn't something that was supposed to come up in ordinary conversation. It also made you look pretentious when someone asked, oh what's your name? Then you launched into a long explanation on family lineage and how you were related to a duke somehow, and show me some bloody respect, peasant!

All very amusing and definitely annoying at the same time, depending on how much time you had available to waste. She had been on the end of that herself, once or twice, being a part of the nobility. While that example was kind of exaggerated in itself, more something at home in a telly drama than real life, variations of it, albeit heavily diluted, had still occurred.

"You're going to leave that athame there?" Iglesias asked, pointing at the Key of Chak Chel, still stuck in the Throne and still leaking golden sunlight. I frowned at it, noting to myself that while ordinarily shining a bright light into my eyes would be enough to leave temporary blotches, this light, did not. It was plenty bright enough, but even a quick glance away showed nothing. This was not the case with Iglesias and Harvill, they both were blinking rapidly and looking away.

"I think it wants to stay there," I shrugged, "I'll come back for it eventually."

Part of me just wanted to go back over there and pull the glowing dagger from the throne, but a niggling feeling in the back of my head whispered that it wasn't time yet, so I let it be.

I stepped past both and approached the mural on the wall and the outline of what looked like a stone door. Inglesias stiffened as I brushed past him, as if he was hit with static electricity. I spared a sideways glance and snorted slightly, at the way his hair was suddenly literally standing on end. My mind flickered back to the water, I had just emerged from, in thought. I really shouldn't have had a charge of static electricity at all, since it should have dissipated into the water when I was in it.

"Chak Chel," I murmured, tracing a hand just above the viridian paint of the mural, looking at the other figure, and the blue dyes there, "Ix Chel... Chaac."

A figure in Mayan white with a viridian headdress was obviously meant to be Chak Chel, she clutched a familiar knife in one hand, in the other an urn, its water overflowing. Chaac, the husband of Ix Chel was bare-chested, clad in green and blue with an obsidian studded blade clutched in one hand. In the other was pink lightning. Possibly red, if the faded nature of the mural was any indication. I ran a finger over the pink paint, it was dry but a few fragments were scraped free by my fingernail.

I stuck my finger in my mouth, "cochineal."

"Coche-what?" Inglesias stammered.

"Carmine dye," I simplified, "Made from beetles, this pink was red once."

The only way it would have faded like this was if it had been once exposed to sunlight for a long time… I cast a suspicious glance back towards the still glowing Key. Well, I suppose there was sunlight down here. The other parts of the painting-mural were unfaded though.

My eyes flickered over the mural, I unslung one of my climbing axes as I did so, holding it gently in one hand. Where was…

I slammed my axe into the wall, into an almost nonexistent seam.

"What are you doing?" Harvill queried behind me, alarm coloring his voice. I heard the shifting of cloth, the scrape of fingers catching on cloth. I could only imagine whatever was happening behind me, but it sounded like Harvill or Iglesias had been about to do something, and was only stopped by the other.

"There's another painting under this one," I spoke, levering my axe's edge into the seam, long-dried mud crumbling away slowly, piece by piece. I really wished I still had my camera, the surface picture probably should've been preserved for posterity.

For a moment, my thoughts wandered to what exactly future archeologists were going to think of me. Yep, I would probably be painted as some antiquity hungry tomb raider, high on her own hubris, destroying priceless sites chasing after myths and folklore. In other words, a real nut.

My axe slipped at that thought, it was so startling. That was exactly what people thought of my father before the end, didn't they? I bit back the grimace that threatened to form and focused on peeling back the first layer of the mural. Chunks of mud, the green scales of Ix Chel's serpent crown falling to the ground steadily.

Slowly, another mural was revealed, this one solely of Kukulkan. However, something was off with this depiction. It was in the customary green and red colors that Kukulkan was associated with but the Kukulkan in this depiction wasn't quite a serpent. Instead, he had arms, reptilian arms ending in sharp claws.

I stepped back to take in the new mural. It was large, and now that I could see the whole picture, Kukulkan didn't look very serpentine at all. The snout was too narrow, but it wasn't crocodilian or lizard-like. The whole shape was fundamentally odd, the ridges above the eyes... Were those teeth supposed to be serrated?

"So…" I asked my two new silent shadows, "What brought you two to Chichen Itza?"

There was silence for a few seconds, before Harvill decided to speak, slipping into a low drawl, "As you probably know, the war with the Red Court ended recently-"

"Yes, the Red Court, who did you say they were fighting again, Trinity?" I asked, still holding my axe in one hand. My senses were on full alert as I probed for information again.

"Trinity?" I heard the confused mumbled reply, "No, they were fighting the White Council."

The confusion in Harvill's voice was genuine, so I could discard the idea that these were direct Trinity agents, but they could be unwitting plants or not know who they were working for exactly. White Council sounded more like some kind of overseer organization rather than a name for a nation or paramilitary group.

It evoked images of, admittingly, wizards and Tolkien. Scholars and thinkers, rather than soldiers.

"What does the White Council represent?" I asked, turning around, still holding my axe loosely. Harvill seemed to be thinking, Iglesias seemed to be studying the mural with what I thought was amusement.

"Humanity," Harvill answered, frowning. Now that, sounded like a very Trinity-like answer. He paused, and I just watched him for a long moment. Finally, he continued, "Who-I mean what is 'Trinity'?"

"Well," I replied, buying time to think. It was obvious that he didn't seem to have any real knowledge about Trinity. On the off chance that he was a member as was just really good at hiding things, perhaps I should throw some shade, "Very questionable morality, Illuminati-type organization, tried to end the world in numerous ways. Wanted to summon Kukulkan to devour all reality. Stuff like that."

Harvill's eyes bulged, and Iglesias gaped. Iglesias grasped for his sword, seemed to think better of it and just stood there, staring.

"Trinity," Harvill spoke, and he seemed to be really thinking hard, before his eyes seemed to flash intently, "We haven't heard of an organization by that name."

"We?" I asked. The way he said 'we' seemed to imply more than just Iglesias and him, and combined with the pride in his voice earlier, "You're part of the White Council?"

"Yes," Iglesias responded, fumbling under his grey robe, "even got a stole here…"

"Iglesias!" Harvill said curtly, rebuking him before his gaze snapped back towards me, "You still haven't explained what group… under whose orders you're acting here."

"I wasn't aware I needed to explain anything I did to you?" I responded, fingers creeping up to play across the edge of my pistol.

"Chichen Itza has been claimed by the White Council as a spoil-of-war, a claim recognized by the Unseelie Accords," He grumbled a bit, then added, "at least the parts that Winter did not take."

I felt a little petty, and quite a bit irritated at his attitude, especially by the fact that none of those terms really meant anything to me. Unseelie? Faeries, really? Winter, spoken of as if it was an actual polity?

"To the Yaaxil I am the Queen of the Damned," I hissed out, "And I am here, by the will of Kukulkan."

See, I can use terms that are confusing too.

I ignored the fear in his eyes, not acknowledging the slight satisfaction that it curdled in my chest. It was a tainted satisfaction, it was nice to be respected, but fear was unpleasant. I already regretted what I said, since it certainly made me sound unhinged. Probably, insane.

Mayan pictographs were embossed in gold around the edge of the mural, out loud I read them, approximating for context. Of course, I didn't read it in English, but in the original ancient Mayan, "Here lies the withered mortal vessel of Kukulkan."

I hope that wasn't supposed to be the thing on the throne, I thought, slightly amused. With a groan of stone-on-stone, the stone door shifted to the side. This time I actually pulled my other climbing axe from its clip. Voice-activated doors in ancient tombs were usually bad signs, even if this one didn't seem as unoccupied as usual, but that made it even worse because so far the occupants were vampires.

My nose scrunched up as the air from inside reached me, a heavy smell of reptilian scales and stale air.

I decided to break the sudden silence, proclaiming, "Well, I think there's a giant snake in there."


	7. Chapter 7

I stepped into the gloom, feeling the rough stone beneath my bare feet. I lifted one hand to my left shoulder, and with an errant touch flicked the small light on, casting a flickering beam into the omnipresent dark of the hallway. The stone floor was still damp, remnants of the water that had been displaced around the entrance.

The air reeked of death even greater than the sacrificial chamber above, far above this cenote. Death, rot, and something fouler. A musky reptilian stench that seemed to reach out with grasping fingers. An almost tangible smell.

The walls were rough stonework, bricks laid with little attention to aesthetics. My eyes flickered to the right as I spotted a small niche, carved into the rough brick wall. A figure, roughly shaped, carved from stone and dyed with red cochineal. One hand raised towards it, for just a moment, before I lowered it. This was an unknown tomb, an unknown passage. Previous experience had taught me caution when dealing with such tombs, especially tombs of the ancient world.

Still, I paused for a moment, examining the statuette. It was a figure of a woman but dyed completely red, Ix Chel, if I had my Mayan gods correct. Or possibly Chak Chel, considering the fact that Ix Chel usually held an urn. A dead butterfly rested in front of the statuette, withered and desiccated.

I stretched out one finger, gently nudging the butterfly, the orange of its wings long since faded. It crumbled into dust beneath my finger, and not for the last time I berated myself for losing my camera. This site was the archeological site of the era, with the cenote filled with sacrificial offerings behind me and the red throne, more ornate than even the red jaguar one that resided in Kukulkan's pyramid at Chichen Itza as the prime centerpiece.

That wasn't even to mention this hidden chamber, only revealed by the indirect rays of the sun, all hidden underneath a layer of ancient Mayan art. I stepped forward, more cautious now as my eyes flitted over another niche. This one to Chaac, the obsidian studded club unmistakable along with the storm imagery and blue dye.

Another butterfly, long dead for what must've felt like an eon, for these offerings. A few steps forward, ignoring this new statuette brought me to another, and then another. In each niche rested a small figure of one of the Mayan gods of old, along with a butterfly. Each orange butterfly left for dead, laying on its back, wings outspread, legs heavenwards.

I felt a chill in my heart, as my mind began to make the connections. The inclusion of butterflies, each in such a prominent place in this decrepit shrine was sending long caresses of goosebumps up my back. Butterflies really, really shouldn't be in this place.

This was a place of sacrifice. The cenote outside was a place to commune with heaven. Not a place to commune with the dead. Butterflies were each likened to a human soul. The union of divine and mortal in this shrine boded poorly, especially with the images upon the throne outside. The throne that showed the sundering of the divine, an usurpation by a beast.

Furthermore, even if these were Mayans, the neighboring Aztecs afforded even deeper meaning to the flying insects. The last breath of a human being becomes a butterfly that descends down to the underworld. The focus on butterflies here was immensely unusual.

The smell of some great reptile grew even more as I stepped out of the small hallway, which was more a crawl space than an actual walkway. Immediately, even as my sparse light flickered in the gloom, my mind cast itself back to the stone serpents on the slope of Chichen Itza.

There was one deity that did not have a statuette, that did not have a ritually placed butterfly in front of it. The deity whose mural rolled away to reveal this dark entrance into the depths of this cenote temple. Kukulkan. The serpent god, who would devour the world and usher in a new world, akin in dreams to the Norse world-serpent Jormungand.

I could not deny that here in the dark, with only a scant light for company, which even now flickered weakly, the urge to turn back was growing tremulously beneath my breast. This feeling was unfamiliar to me, a foreign thought. I half-turned staring back down the dark passage to the strong sunlight of the Key of Chak Chel, still embedded in the seat of the slain.

I could see my companions standing there, their lips moving with silent whispers and the sweat upon their brows. There was a heaviness to this room, some malignant spirit, long-dormant, that only might be awoken. I was reminded of the death curse many said was laid upon the revealers of the Egyptian tomb of King Tutankhamun. Some would call it foolish to traverse so deeply into an ancient tomb, especially one long undiscovered.

Of course, I had spit in the face of conventional wisdom before, treading where greater archeologists feared to follow. Some of the stunts I had accomplished, especially in Siberia and Yamatai should have resulted in my death. In fact, they would almost certainly have resulted in the death of any that tried to imitate me.

I will admit that I was just a little bit of an adrenaline junky.

I sighed there at the end of the little hallway. The interior was dark, and I risked another glance back, at the two wardens standing at the entrance. Iglesias had evidently decided to follow me, but his eyes were wide and he looked on the edge of hyperventilating. His face was pale, and his eyes flickered from statuette to statuette, as if he was able to see something I could not.

Harvill did not follow, he had not even taken one step into the interior but watched me with narrowed eyes. I pursed my lips as he refused to meet my eyes. Even though he was staring he refused to match gazes. I had to admit that it was partially disconcerting. My long associations with people of the less savoury sort made me disinclined to trust those that were unable to look me in the eye.

I turned back to the interior, breathing deeply and listening. I could hear the wind whistle deep inside. There was no sound of movement, but I didn't necessarily expect any since by all indications this was a sealed tomb or shrine.

Stepping forward, I let my pale weakly shining light play around, as far as it could reach in the deep gloom. The air was filled with dust but I managed to make out the nearest object.

Clothing. Green serpent garb, severely aged. Inside the fragments of feathers and cloth were the shriveled remains of the serpent guard. I knelt next to the body, reaching out a damp finger to press against the cloth. It crumbled away to dust a moment later, and I frowned.

It was old. Very old. I stood, and my light followed, coming to rest on another serpent guard and then another. I stepped forward again, this time more carefully. I was surprised that the air was not staler, since if there was airflow I expected these remains to be long gone. If this chamber had actually been sealed, I would've expected it to be so stale as to be nearly unbreathable.

There wasn't nearly enough airflow into the chamber from the door I had reopened. That thought brought me pause because there was airflow, I could hear the whistle of the wind. Since that was the case, there should be more decay.

Just like that, the whistling stopped.

I murmured something very impolite under my breath as I heard the scrape of something incredibly large moving over the stones. A red light flickered into being, a red flame. It wasn't an ordinary flame either. It was actually red, like a signal flare or strontium salt.

The red light flickered like veins on the walls, undulating out into spirals. It looked like so many serpents flickering, made of fire in the dark. Gradually they crept across the ceiling in random patterns, illuminating the chamber.

First great red pillars were revealed, carven images and engravings of the sun, traveling through its stages. Above the images of the sun melted away into something that was hard to understand. I squinted at the nearest pillar, trying to make sense of the image. Trying to look past the surface layer, there was something else there.

A moment later, I came to, and immediately noted Iglesias's hand tentatively resting on my shoulder. I struggled to my knees, feeling blood dripping down from my nose. It didn't feel broken but I had no idea what just happened.

Drip. My fingers splayed around the bloody mark on the ground, barely visible under the red light. My eyes flickered up toward Iglesias who looked even paler in the light.

"We shouldn't be here," he murmured, "This place reeks of black magic, and other fouler sorceries."

Black magic. I shook my head, organizing my thoughts.

"Avatar." A voice spoke in the ancient Mayan tongue. Deep and resonating. I could hear the stones quiver beneath my bare feet and even feel the vibrations in my bones. The word was rasped for all it resonated. It felt almost physical like it was plucking a string deep inside my flesh. Like a guitarist plucking a chord.

The sensation seemed to grow, and a light flickered from my body like it had when the Key of Chak Chel shone from my body. The fingers in my left hand felt cold, and I risked a glance down. For some reason, I couldn't muster up any surprise at the fact the Key was once more in my hand. I knew I had left it behind in the throne, and yet, here it was again.

In the light shining from my form, I could make out the far shadows. Over a veritable field of dead serpent guards, enough to turn the floor from grey stone to faded green, rested something. A dead god. A beast that I knew should be long departed from this world.

Instinctively, I knew this was Kukulkan. Divinity given flesh.

My body trembled, and I felt the Iglesias muttering gibberish under his breath, it sounded like an almost fever mix of English, Spanish, Polish and Latin. Repeated litanies. I risked a glance at my side.

Blood ran from his ears. His fingers were scrunched up over his eyes, and blood ran from between them too. Dark blood.

Almost magnetically, I felt something strum inside me again, only just then realizing it was my own heartbeat. It drew my attention back to the shadows. A heathen god. Kukulkan. A great head, not serpentlike but almost birdlike in movement emerged from the shadows. Teeth as large as steak-knives, serrated and set in a massive head almost as large as I was.

Almost any child would recognize the face of a dinosaur. Even I, enamored by tombs and archeology recognized the beast in front of me. The small arms, tipped with three clawed fingers, the massive hindlegs, needed to support a beast in excess of several tons.

Of course, I also recognized what it was. Giganotosaurus. A beast beyond legend, a real monster that died long ago in one of the greatest extinction events the world had ever seen.

"How?" I couldn't help but ask. Even as I asked I could see things wrong with the beast. There were holes in its feathers and leathered skin, patches revealing white bones beneath.

Red flame glimmered in empty sockets.

"High priestess," it rumbled, its voice shaking the entire chamber with its dull rumble.

"A willing sacrifice, given so the chattel might live," it continued. The scant sinews in its neck and jaw snapped, and their sound was akin to a releasing bowstring. The Mayan that slipped forth was almost horrifying. In my mind, I couldn't help but think that somehow this was how it was meant to be spoken. All others that spoke the Mayan tongue before were a pale imitation, a mockery of some language somehow perfectly suited to this beast before me.

It didn't seem possible, but somehow I could understand it.

The vessel of Kukulkan paused in mid-motion, almost seeming to cock its head to the side, finally it spoke again, "Defiler of the Defiled, Queen of the Damned, Herald of the Devoured Sun, a great service beyond all measure has been performed."

I could only stare dumbly. There was something unholy behind this thing. Some taint that lingered beyond a facet of benevolence. An indifference. Inhumanity. This wasn't human. It wasn't some kind of ascension. This was a primeval monster possessing the body of a lesser beast if one could call a six-ton theropod lesser.

"One fragment remains, one last spawn-relic of the usurper. Last of and ended lineage. I would see this last echo slain," the creature rumbled again.

Iglesias was screaming but I could feel only a numbness spreading through my chest. It seemed like I could only see the world from far away.

"Fulfill this task, avatar, and I shall lay you to your deserving rest."

The chamber was empty. Great bleached bones lay in front of me, illuminated in the light of my small lamp. Dust littered the chamber, drifting on faint eddies from the small bar of light coming from far behind me.

I lifted my fingers to my eyes periodically, almost expecting them to return with red blood. They hurt.

Flesh and scales, teeth and maw.

In my eyes, I saw a profane ritual. The leaching of the remnants of a lodestone of immense power drenched in the blood and life of billions of living things. I saw a name slandered, Chicxulub.

Feathers within scale.

"The Wardens here say you're an Archeologist?" The man in front of me asked. I was back in the throne room beneath the cenote. The ground had risen, overtaking the water. The throne still sat unblemished, and the Key of Chak Chel gleamed with radiance, casting long shadows upon the walls.

"Once, perhaps," I replied, "Perhaps again someday."

Before my aching eyes, my shadow stretched. Growing larger, a long snout emerging, a feathered ridge, teeth like steak knives. The shadow loomed on the wall, a massive specter, for a long moment. I wasn't sure if the others could see it, actually. Their eyes didn't seem drawn to it like mine were.

The old man in front of me tightened his hands upon the black staff in his grip. It looked like it was most likely made of hawthorn, but I supposed it could be a different wood as well. I was perhaps not as familiar with wood types as I could've been.

Iglesias and Harvill stood off to the side, grey cloaks once more pristine. Somehow, both had regained their swords and they stood with blades drawn. They looked supremely uncomfortable and Iglesias's eyes were bloodshot. I wondered if my own eyes looked as bad as his. Dried blood ran from his ears and he seemed extremely unsteady on his feet.

An old woman, dark-skinned but with heavily greying hair stood a little bit away from my interrogator. She was an incredibly tall woman, standing taller than my own not so impressive height. I estimated about six feet, give or take an inch or two. A staff of redwood, red oak or mahogany rested easily against her shoulder. Her eyes were sharp, and I saw them track over toward the wall and my shadow, but they didn't widen and her expression didn't change. I could only guess either she couldn't see it or freaky shadows were a normal thing for her. She wore a grey cloak, unblemished with a purple gold pin pinned above where her breasts would be. Gnarled fingers tightened around her staff and her lips thinned.

If I wasn't filled with such bone-deep weariness I might be intrigued, wondering who exactly these two new arrivals were. As it was, I felt tired, drawn out. Drained. Stretched. I spared a glance for my shadow. My mind couldn't help but think, a dinosaur shadow was not at all what I needed.

The shadow shifted, withdrawing. The feathers and snout drew in, compressing, leaving me with a mere human shadow. Human and frail compared to the immensity of earlier.

"You are not Red Court," The old man spoke, and I focused on him once more. It was as much a judgment as a question. His face was wrinkled with age and red from long hours spent in the sun. His large grey beard made him appear actually Gandalf or wizard-like.

My mind flickered to the conversation I exchanged before, "The Abominations? No, I was- am human."

I didn't know if Kukulkan branding me as his avatar in the metaphorical sense was enough to overwrite my humanity. Normally, I'd just discard it as errant whimsy on my part. Some long seated lingering shame about my many failures. However, now I wasn't so sure. I had failed so many times, and now my shadow didn't even give me the courtesy of reflecting my physical body.

His eyes flickered, he wanted to ask something more but bit back the words, I could tell.

Instead, he said, "Lady Croft, you said to them? From England?"

The corner of my lips quirked upward, and I almost smiled, "Usually."

Despite my better instincts, I turned my attention away, toward the floor. It was intriguing the way the stone looked almost rippled like it had been water once but was now a solid stone. All just one huge slab. I slid my foot along the surface, it wasn't smooth but slightly pebbled. Good for traction, good for fighting.

The woman spoke then, "How exactly did you come to this place? The wards here are… extensive."

Her voice was thin, evidence of her advanced age perhaps, but her focus was acute. Her eyes studied my face.

"I imagine Kukulkan wished to see me here," I said, and watched both their grips tighten on their sticks. Foci, I suppose, if they were actually magic. I was kind of beginning to doubt my earlier knee-jerk idea that they couldn't be wizards or occultists. I really didn't have any evidence to suggest they weren't and I was clearly aware of other supernatural things. Why were wizards less believable than gods?

"A Mayan god." The man with the black staff said, lips thinning. I could feel the air grow suddenly potent, heavy. Saturated.

I nodded sharply, somehow cognizant that Kukulkan's identity as a Mayan god was distressing.

"You're White Council, correct?" I attempted to steer the conversation away, to buy time to think. To frame my next words the way I wanted them to be heard.

"Aye," The man said, shooting a quick glance at my two one-time opponents. I could almost guess the question in his mind, how much had those two talked? They were in no real condition to answer, at least based on the blood and drained looks they sported. Oh sure, they were aware, but credible conversational partners they were not. I doubted how aware they were really. He turned back to me with an unreadable look.

"Kukulkan shared your disdain," I stated succinctly. I felt hot air on my back, and the sickly sweet smell of rotten meat, decaying in the mouth of a great predator. A rumble unseen

Iglesias fell over. Great timing actually, my friend, I thought, just what was needed to break the attention. All three of those that remained upright froze in place for a long moment, two of them, eyeing me specifically.

"McCoy?" The older woman asked, attention shifting toward Iglesias and Harvill who was currently crouched beside him. The old man, McCoy apparently, nodded sharply, and she quickly closed the distance between the two groups. She spared one quick glance toward me, I didn't move at all, just stood bathed in the light of the Key. She knelt and reached out toward Iglesias, whispered words spilling from her mouth.

"The throne room, how did you find it?" McCoy asked. An alteration on his previous question. I could tell he was displeased with my earlier flippancy but was being too diplomatic to say it outright. They obviously didn't believe what I said completely.

"I didn't," I replied, letting just a tinge of amusement enter into my tone, "A failed- or I suppose, a successful ritual sent me here."

"A ritual?" the old man replied, still looking suspicious, "Describe it."

"The usual for Mayan sacrifice," I responded, "Human death, lots of blood, a convergence. The whole works."

I left out the willing sacrifice part. It didn't feel right to share it with strangers.

"This ritual's purpose was to send you here?"

"No." I replied, pausing a moment, "It was to stop the end of the world."

The old wizard sighed, finally seeming to relax a little, "The world is always ending, Lady Croft."

That sounded like it might actually be true. I wanted to retort with something pithy like, yes, but this time they were going to feed the entire world to Kukulkan. I refrained, no need to be antagonistic.

"You know my name," I replied to that, "but you have been disinclined to give yours?"

He regarded me for a moment and then responded dryly, neither his hands or body moving, "I'm Wizard McCoy, that's Liberty."

I remained silent for a moment, trying to lock eyes with him almost unconsciously, but he avoided my gaze, his eyes instead settling on the bridge of my nose. I wondered whether there was something special about eye-contact since all of these "wizards" seemed to avoid it.

He stepped closer, evidentially deciding to risk approaching me where I stood, right in front of the entrance to the small chamber. I noticed he wore heavy boots, heavily worn. They were in a similar condition to my own boots, at least before I discarded them. I glanced over to where I left them and found them half encased in the stone.

I cast a quick glance back at McCoy and moved away, toward the center of the room. I stepped toward the steps of the throne. I could feel almost humming. A weight to the air that increased the closer I got to the gleaming red throne. Despite the brilliance of the Key, I felt no need to shield my eyes. I stood before it, looking at the carvings on it. I ignored the old wizard approaching from behind me.

The words of Kukulkan were important. I had slain whatever sat on this throne, a Red Court vampire, if the White Council was to be believed but Kukulkan seemed to say there was one more out there. Of course, being a god, he hadn't seen it fit to give me any directions whatsoever.

That being said, I wasn't even sure if I even wanted the reward Kukulkan offered. It was easy to see what it alluded. Death.

I wasn't sure how I felt about that offer. I couldn't deny that in my heart, there was a small whispering death wish. I think everyone has one to some extent, sometimes it is greater, other times it is still and silent.

Some nights when the survivor's guilt got to me, I would lay awake wishing I had died. Died on Yamatai. Died in Syria. Died in Siberia. Died in Mexico. It was agonizing on more than one level to see both friends and innocents swept away by the cold chill hands of death itself.

Intellectually, I knew that there was no way I was culpable for all the deaths around me. It wasn't my decision to try and find Yamatai. Other forces sent me on my quest for the Divine Source.

However, the deaths in Mexico were my fault. I had removed the box. Sure, if I hadn't someone else, like Trinity, would've removed it and the people would've died anyway. No matter how I tried to rationalize it away, I still couldn't get the face of the child out of my mind. The one I failed to save from the floodwaters. The look of fear and desperation haunted me almost as much as the death of… on Yamatai.

"This thing thought it was a god," I said aloud, almost bitterly, "It wouldn't be the first god I've slain."

There was a rustle of cloth behind me, the light footsteps of a hunter coming up behind me and a little to the side. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the black staff and grey cloak of McCoy. The chamber was quiet. I could hear the breathing of Harvil and Iglesias, even though they were several meters away.

"I climbed the slopes of the ziggurat once," I mused.

I could feel the attention of McCoy on me, and I continued, "I didn't wish to go to Yamatai, not really, but I ended it all the same. I slew the Sun Goddess, Himiko."

I laughed. It was a mirthless, hollow laugh, "Even gods die."


	8. Chapter 8

Interlude 1: Martha Liberty

The black magic that Chichen Itza was steeped in was second only to one other, even if many more came close.

Martha Liberty, a senior member of the White Council of Wizards, imagined that the profanity at the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus came close, but even that paled in comparison to the centuries of ritualistic murder performed on these grounds. At least once the Mausoleum had been a place of proper mourning, unmarred by profanity.

A more modern example would be the profane working at Auschwitz and the other Nazi concentration camps by Kemmler. To this day, the White Council had been unable to discern what working Kemmler intended that required the death of so many, especially when it had become clear they hadn't been intended as an undead army.

Maybe if they could've found Kemmler's foul familiar… but that ship had sailed long ago. The White Council had not found it in 1945 when they disrupted his continent-spanning ritual and they had not found it in 1961 when they believed they had finally put Kemmler to his final resting place.

There were some that insisted it must be in Chicago, especially after the attempted necromantic ascension, but the War had consumed all resources.

Yet, it was a profoundly heady experience to win a war, especially one that they had been losing. The Senior Council had insisted to all onlookers and even their own members that the setbacks and losses had been planned. This was a lie. It had gone against her judgment, but the rank and file of the Council did not realize that they had been on the losing side.

The Senior Council had estimated they had about half a year left before they were overrun. They had even been forced to turn to unsavory allies to try and extend this deadline but the price had been too high for Langtry, Merlin of the White Council.

Chichen Itza was a whole other beast. Since the White Council's very first forays into the New World, the Red Court had been there to stymie them and their agents. Martha knew of the attempts to break the New World's powers had failed when it came to the loathsome monsters that called the Yucatán peninsula their demesne.

Cortez had become distracted, and others had failed, subverted by earthly pleasures, hedonism, or failed to understand the gravity of the situation. The Red Court had not, at first, realized why the White Council sought to destroy them. They lived like lords amongst the chattel and thought in very clear terms that strength made right, like many before them.

This in particular rubbed Martha Liberty the wrong way. For many reasons, but primarily for the ordeals that her people suffered under that self-same philosophy even if it masqueraded under a different coat, of the white man's burden perhaps. A poor excuse for a slavery of the masses, indeed. Martha Liberty's mother was from what many considered the cradle of humanity, where humans first emerged before any divine diaspora was inflicted.

Chichen Itza was an abomination, a place where the profane had sundered reality. Great workings of might and magic had been performed in what could be called dark hallowed ground. It was not holy, it was not even cursed, but it could be called the inverse of holy. Dedicated to evil, anathema.

A miasma of malignance had lain over this shrine for too long.

She had felt it where she stood, unraveling the foulest wards she had ever endured. Fighting through the coiled darkness. McCoy had stiffened, his head flying toward the main temple of Chichen Itza.

"What is that?" Martha had half muttered, eyes turned upward, and weathered hands closing about her rosewood staff.

The feeling was odd, oily, and ancient, whispers of feathers. Undirected malice, like a great predator before a strike. Dispassionate malice that did not bear ill will because of another's identity, but the malice of a hunter.

It made her bones ache. She had never felt anything like it before, but she could draw connections. A god of the hunt, a primal god, a predator god had descended or just acted through a vessel.

The very fact it had just occurred in the temple of Kukulkan, a temple of a genocided race. A temple long inhabited by what could be termed hunters, predators in their own right was concerning.

Martha Liberty's hands stilled on the wards she was unraveling, letting them bounce back to where they had been before. A day of hard work, ruined in an instant.

McCoy grimaced and they both hurried into the temple to a god that had long allowed such defilement of life to take place within its own temple.

The throne room had been immolated, the floor destroyed and it had taken them a long time to traverse into the dark, unnaturally dark, depths below.

"The Devourer!" One of McCoy's kenku croaked, quailing away. McCoy turned and shot it a look, it had refused to cross the threshold of the temple. It was as if there was a line across the door.

"We have no time," McCoy grunted, his grip tight around the Blackstaff, the symbol of his office, "I don't see Iglesias or Harvill."

* * *

POV: Lara Croft

"Be as it may," McCoy said, eyeing me warily as my unhinged shaky laughter subsided, "I feel it wise to ask again, what is your purpose here?"

He had kind of asked that question already, I thought. Of course, it was fair to ask it again since I had hardly answered it fairly. I had alluded to the fact that it had something to do with the creature I had slain.

"Can an archeologist not peruse a site of interest?" I asked rhetorically.

McCoy's bushy white eyebrow drew together. Yeah, no, he wasn't buying that explanation.

"Can a priestess not commune with her god?" I continued, still in that self-same quasi rhetorical tone. I wasn't actually sure if I was a priestess, actually. The Yaaxil certainly thought I was, but I wasn't quite sure if I actually deserved a role as a religious officiant. Also, even though I knew Kukulkan was real did not mean I actually worshiped the thing. Feared it, but not quite to the level of subservience.

McCoy's lip curled, not quite into a snarl, but enough to show he was slightly irritated, "Well then, priestess, is your purpose complete?"

"Kukulkan has judged it so," I answered. The chamber rumbled, and this time McCoy did seem momentarily startled, a twitch to his brows, nothing more. My shadow shifted and grew, length, and depth appearing. A jaw snapped toward the shadow of McCoy beside me.

He glanced down, following my gaze. For a moment, I felt a juxtaposition like I had experienced looking at the throne before. There were normal shadows, shining in the light of the Key, and below that, somehow unseen was our other shadows. His shadow was the shape of a man, wizened and stooped by great hardship and long life of regret. Mine was a feral god-beast, more hunger than thought. Brilliance and power, an echo of something unfathomably greater.

His eyes seemed to gleam, and I had the sudden thought, the idea that he was looking into something, at something else. He had followed my eyes and gazed upon the shadows. The air seemed heavier, poignant, like a serpent about to strike.

When his gaze traveled upward his sight had returned to normal, but I still knew he had seen, somehow, the shadows that lingered underneath. Not into my soul and the truth there, but I surmised that such was the strength of Kukulkan that echoes lingered after my body had passed.

McCoy was ashen-faced, his ruddy face an unhealthily looking pale pallor.

"You can't be human," he murmured. Liberty seemed tense, evidentially noticing the countenance of her companion.

Whispered words still fell from her lips, where she was crouched over Iglesias and Harvill, but her attention rested on me where I stood.

"I like to think that I am," I answered honestly. It was as if I was partially in a dream state. This introspection was unlike me. Ordinarily, the urge to move, to do something, would be overpowering after staying so long in this one place.

Ever since I first set eyes on the visage of Kukulkan it was as if I had entered into a dreamworld. To quote the Iliad, perhaps a film had been removed from my eyes, so I could more easily distinguish between gods and men. However, this ability was more like Cassandra's, rather than mere sight into the unseen. It rendered me far more passive and willing to take questions and answer them in turn. At the same time, it was neither of those things, something unique to itself.

"What are you?" McCoy demanded, and if his staff was now in a more guarded position I did not pay much attention.

"Kukulkan branded me as Queen of the Damned," I responded. Honestly, it was a moniker that I both liked and disliked. I disliked it because of the ramifications, the fact that it wasn't my name. At the same time, I felt that I deserved such a title.

McCoy twitched. It looked like he really wanted to bark something out, some warning perhaps or chastisement maybe, but he bit it back. My shadow nipped toward his, great jaws opening and closing, and he shuddered.

"You have not answered my question," McCoy said, "Thrice I ask and done, for what purposes did you come here, priestess?"

"A purpose fulfilled," I replied, not fazed.

McCoy regarded me for a moment longer, eyes narrowed before he turned away and stalked toward Liberty, who was still crouched on the ground.

"Where was the ritual that brought you here?" Liberty asked, her voice laced with tension. Even so, she was a lot calmer than McCoy and I could appreciate that.

"Somewhere else," I answered, not at all petulantly. I was tempted to name-drop Paititi again, as I did for the other two, but I felt doing so might go against the nature of my oath a little more. These two actually seemed to understand something about rituals and that was concerning in itself, "You say this temple is yours, so I suppose I should be on my way, should I not?"

Truly, I must admit that I was tempted for a moment to ask whether they knew about travel between worlds, but that was a hypothesis that even I was unsure about. I could just be in my Chichen Itza, and not traveled through worlds at all. I could be mistaken about the differences I had observed in the throne above. Something stilled my tongue, prevented me from spilling another secret.

I paused instead, looking at the gleaming Key, casting its solar light into the interior of the filled cenote. I stepped forward, one foot resting on the step of the throne, and grasped the Key. Its light shone into my eyes. I sighed, a long put upon sigh and pulled, this time a gentle pressure instead of the effort I put into it before. There was a click and the smell of blood and then the obsidian blade of the Key slipped free.

I could taste blood in my mouth again, a lingering sharpness.

I stepped away, the light from the Key abating steadily. Now it appeared to be just a knife. Just an obsidian athame. For a long moment, I looked it over and then I slipped it into my satchel.

"Let's talk business," I said, turning to McCoy and Liberty, "I have a job that needs doing."

* * *

_Viridian green feathers shifted on a myriad of squirming shapes within the stone chamber and all I could think was, I need air._

_Loincloths of green feathers and matted fur, matted with God knows what. The scent of blood was heady with how much it saturated the air. Scraps of cloth torn by blood-soaked talons._

_Frantic gasps, orgasmic bliss, and pale faces. They were losing blood fast. The taste of blood lingered on my tongue, and I was left staring into waxy looking dead eyes._

_I needed to get out._

_Blood and pale green spittle rolled down from my maw, matting in my fur, a pale sinuous tongue darting out to lap up the excess. My feet, claws or talons, found purchase in one of the squirming bodies below me, they didn't seem to even notice as they were punctured._

_I lifted myself above the mass of bodies, most still, other entwined by furry vampiric bodies. I could see the bodies pulse, could almost feel the heartbeats, some fast and frantic, others stilling. The slow final still of death._

_What was this? What was this place? My eyes tracked upward, over old stone walls, dotted and covered with blood, both drying and ancient. I watched as a bat-like creature suckled on the neck of the squirming body of a woman below it, holding her down. She made no move to free herself, just seeming to endure it rapturously. It was nauseating._

_Abruptly I became aware of the sloshing blood in my stomach. The warm glow that seemed to radiate outwards and fill my limbs with warmth and strength. The world seemed sharper and I leaped away._

_My feet landed upon the red throne, carven effigies that burned with fever heat beneath the sharp talons that skittered over the stonework. A withered husk lay, twisted and misshapen. I watched, frozen in place, locked in place with some distant animal fear, as it dissolved into dust._

_Echoes of death._

I slipped awake with the taste of blood in my mouth. It was not a new experience. At this point, the heady copper taste of blood wasn't even enough to set me dry heaving. It hadn't been that way, ever since my first days on Yamatai.

Ever since my ritualistic rebirth in the blood pool. Oh sure, I didn't talk about it to my companions on that island, but that moment, more so than even the -my first kill. Everything seemed almost lost. In a cruel parody, Trinity had recreated the whole thing at the Porvenir oil fields.

The gleaming golden mask shone from atop a gaudily painted wooden table, illuminated by the light of the full moon. A simple tripwire secured my ornate wooden door. I gazed up at the moon, eyes darting down to my shadow. My face twitched for a moment, I couldn't decide whether I was relieved or not that my shadow was human.

Ever since I stepped out of Kukulkan's temple proper, the haze had departed from my mind. A heady almost drunk haze had hijacked my thoughts partially. Robbed me of my quick wits. That was not to say that I wasn't myself or had been under some sort of possession.

Instead, it was as if I was drunk or drugged. In a way that made sense as well, since I would expect a legitimate interaction with the divine would be enough to addle anyone's thoughts. I mean, the two wizards, they had been even more than just inconvenienced by the manifestation. Or, I suppose, it was similar to the moments of extreme blood loss that I experienced throughout my life of crypt exploration.

Sure, it could also be called tomb raiding, yes Samantha, but to me, it was a far more civilized purpose. It wasn't the result of greed or hubris, instead I had a deathly need to stop Trinity and discover the truth behind my father's death.

Sweat clung to my body, and I was barely cognizant of whatever happened after my feet touched the outside of the temple. My divine guidance had faded significantly but my purpose still remained. It was dulled by a lack of direction.

My eyes tracked upward, even in this lowly guest-chamber within the hidden vampire delve of Chichen Itza, there was an elaborate carving that decorated the wall. I recognized the subject of the carven stone immediately.

Shakily, I pushed myself to my feet. My muscles screamed I had been going for at least two to three days without sleep, all on top of severe physical exertion. Even I, with my peak human physique, had been pushed to the practical limits of my body. Lactic acid burning sharp cramps into my muscles. Do or die, there had been no time to stop and breathe.

Tired fingers flicked the switch on my shoulder light and I pulled myself out of the silken bed, letting the pale light play over the carving. The walls were stone and the mural was as well. Its form shared similarities between the murals from Yaxchilan and Palenque _ch'ahb_' bloodletting depictions.

My lips quirked upward as I examined the stone carving. Bloodletting. How proper for a vampire temple complex. New theories swirled around inside my mind. The Mayan practice of bloodletting was rather unique and the idea that it was normalized by a vampiric upper class was surprisingly plausible. After all, they wouldn't be as affected by blood loss. My smile died as I noted the upper part of the carving, a simplified depiction of a solar eclipse.

My fingers brushed against the mural, partially just because I wanted to touch it, wanted to see whether it was real and partially because all my archaeology professors would say something like, 'Lara, don't touch that, it belongs in a museum.' Guess who found Paititi? I had a private museum at the manor anyway.

"Priestess?" I heard a voice down the hall outside my room call. It was familiar. McCoy, but he was keeping his distance, staying some ways down the hall. Silently, with a jaguar's tread, I glided across the stone floor, my feet without sound.

I had tested my stealth against a jaguar before and emerged the victor. Creeping over the stone floor was absolutely nothing when compared to sneaking through dense Peruvian or Colombian jungle, filled with bugs and hidden hazards.

"Wizard McCoy," I called, responding, my voice perfectly level.

With deft hands, I slipped the wire free from the door and slid the scavenged grenade I had placed near the door into my satchel. My dreams had not been easy.

The door slid open almost soundlessly, with just the barest sound of a fraying rope. At least there was a door here instead of some cloth over an opening. The latter was more popular amongst the Mayans after all.

He stood, illuminated in the light of the full moon. Two shrouded Wardens, each clad in grey, sword sheathed by their sides, stood beside him. I continued forward languidly, one hand loosely inside my satchel, chipped fingernails just skimming the edge of the Key, which was silent.

My other hand, which they could see, even in the gloom of the moonlight, I allowed to hover over my pistol. Not close enough to constitute a threat, but enough to remind them that strong-arming me had the potential to go bloody poorly.

McCoy seemed to acknowledge me with a curt nod, one hand was obscured by his voluminous grey robes, the other clenched his dark wood staff. I felt a slight chill, a latent sense as I looked at the staff, that something was not as it seemed.

I could smell the rank odor of sweat from the two Wardens flanking him, even with the chill of the night air and their distance from me.

"I also answer to Croft," I stated, letting my eyes dance over their bodies. I could tell by the bulge in one's cloak that what might be a submachine gun was hidden underneath his garb along with the sword. The other appeared to only have the sword.

The one with the gun was Hispanic, sporting a darker complexion along with a full black mustache. The other was of indeterminate Mediterranean descent.

McCoy regarded me stoically for a moment before he nodded slowly, whether he was accepting my words or just acknowledging my presence I had no idea.

"We've secured transportation for your route to Chicxulub," McCoy finally said.

All three of them didn't move but remained watching me steadily. I could actually almost claim to smell the fear radiating off the leftmost Warden. My eyes flickered to his and he snapped his eyes away from mine as I attempted to make eye contact.

"I suspect that's not all you wanted to tell me?" I asked, interpreting what their continued presence meant.

"Unfortunately," The other Warden, the Hispanic noted. His tone was easy, but the words were belied by a certain underlying tension that made what should have been easy words come out clipped and uncertain, the one word ending on a high pitch.

"The Mexican Army showed an hour ago," McCoy decided to just bite the bullet and explain what was bothering the three, "They know something happened."

I raised a brown eyebrow, searching his face for duplicity, "And… this is my problem? You said you took this as a spoil of war."

"Devourer! Sun-eater!" a crow croaked in an eerie mimicry of human speech from somewhere outside.

McCoy made a funny face, "It was requested of me that I ask you to negotiate."


	9. Chapter 9

The moon shone down, casting the entirety of Chichen Itza in pale light. Pale light that was only broken by the flickering shadows of pitch torches and oil braziers placed strategically at the entrance of the temple plaza buildings.

It was profoundly unlike what I had seen before. During my university days, I visited Chichen Itza as a school-sanctioned activity. Extra credit. Well, most others had chosen closer targets within a day or two away. Visiting the ruins of old English castles or Scottish cairns. I went to Mexico that weekend. Crept out in the shallow light of dawn and climbed the pyramid of Kukulkan.

It was an odd dichotomy. Obviously incredibly ancient, yet parts looked like they had been maintained steadily for centuries. Just the supply chain to keep the torches and braziers lit would be immense. Not nearly enough to be operating under the government budget it had been under before.

The Wardens shadowed McCoy and I at a respectful distance. The gold mask of the Queen of the Damned felt cool against the feverish skin of my face. Full regalia seemed to be the way to go, viridian, and gold all the way.

"So who exactly requested me?" I asked, letting the words slip from my mouth easily. If McCoy was bothered by my near-silent gait or the Mayan garb he made no real indication. Stiffened movement maybe, but that could just be arthritis. After all, he was quite old.

"The Mexican Military," McCoy frowned, I could see the stress lines around his eyes deepen, even in the darkness. He glanced to the side, not quite meeting my eyes, and then looked away.

He seemed more at ease around me then after his previous conversation. I surmised that it was probably because he had more of a concrete timeline until I would be out of his hair.

"By name?"

"No," he frowned, "They wanted to speak to the Red Court."

"I'm not Red Court," I claimed. The words tasted bitter in my mouth. I could see his reasoning, however. I suppose I looked kind of like a Red Court. Not the bat part, the Mayan influenced part, and I could pull off some decent Mayan impressions as well.

The idea sat sourly in my stomach. Pretending to be Red Court reminded me far too much of my dream. There was a slightly irrational fear inside me that I was going to turn into one of those things. An anthropophage.

McCoy was silent for a moment, then he murmured in a tone that was both polite and biting, "It would be easy to mistake you for one, your aura is… similar."

I realized with a start that the words he uttered were not his, they were too rehearsed, too easily given. Someone had fed him these responses. I pursed my lips, thinking behind the gold facemask.

"I see," I replied, finally. There was a moment of silence. A dark shape leaped from one stone building to another, shadowing us. I heard the flutter of feathers. A crow croaked again, louder than before, warning the others.

I gave no indication I knew we were being followed. McCoy and the Wardens didn't seem to realize it so I didn't give any indication I knew.

"Yet," I broke the silence which McCoy seemed perfectly willing to keep, "You still haven't taken the liberty to explain why I should argue on your behalf."

McCoy's expression soured, he seemed to debate what he was supposed to say, before he explained succinctly, "The Red Court was entrenched in all facets of South America's governments. They don't fully know about our side, just that a lot of contingency plans just went into place."

I parsed that tidbit. It was annoyingly little information, but still enough that I was able to deduce some small scraps. I couldn't help wondering whether my disasters, the earthquakes, and fiery rain had anything to do with what he was implying.

Furthermore, I also bit down the question of 'our side' since it was quite obvious. The 'supernatural.'

"Interesting, but sufficiently under-compelling," I answered, even if it was anything but that. It was not my path to stand by when injustice was done. However, the White Council's claims on Chichen Itza seemed like they broke some kind of international law. I wouldn't know which one, I just knew that it was against the law to claim another country's sovereign territory.

McCoy looked like he was debating with himself whether he had any compelling arguments or agreements to make. The White Council had already promised me transport. There was precious little else they could offer.

"The entire place is surrounded, there won't be any travel in and out of Chichen Itza until the Mexican Army leaves."

I frowned, before nodding, "I will speak to them."

"Nanashi!" He exclaimed, sounding relieved.

There was a startled corvine croak and the flutter of feathered wings. I had the barest moment to think, what the bloody hell?

A man-sized feathered creature stalked out of the gloom. It cocked its head to the side warily, long yellow beak framed just so by the light of the nearby brazier. Leather plated samurai⎻Edo period, at least armor covered its torso. A wakizashi was sheathed in the traditional manner, curve facing downward. It blinked too human-looking eyes.

A Tengu? Japanese folklore spirit. A heavenly sentinel. Myths differed on whether it was part dog or part bird. The only thing that didn't really fit was that the samurai armor was not really how it was depicted in folklore, instead the academic in me noted that it should be wearing the traditional robes of a yamabushi.

Also, Nanashi?

"Nameless?" I asked, looking at the creature, "How curious."

A likely name, one given by those that suspected they dealt with yokai, demons, that desired names to steal. Fitting to give to one not trusted. I always thought it was a remarkable similarity to how names in Gaelic mythology were given similar weight. Names were powerful, they defined things, gave meaning, conferred knowledge appropriate for the station.

The feathers behind its head flared, and it croaked, "I say the same! Sun-eater!"

I hid the flinch admirably. The accented words, even if they were funneled through the accent of a crow, combined with the epithet Sun-eater had unfortunate connotations. I felt I maybe knew exactly what it was speaking about.

"Himiko needed to die," I stated. The Tengu in front of me did not move, "She was insane."

The Tengu regarded me for a moment longer, long feathered talons brushing over the handle of its wakizashi. Only then did I notice a long katana hidden within its shroud of feathers.

"The army waits!" It informed McCoy, turning its attention away from me.

McCoy nodded from where he was watching the both of us carefully, his grip was tight about his staff but otherwise, he seemed unbothered.

The corvid-headed creature croaked and turned away, into the darkness. McCoy and I trailed behind by a half step. The Wardens by even more distance.

A few moments later I knew the Mexican Army was close. I heard smatterings of rough Spanish and smelled cigarettes and engine oil.

Harsh artificial light greeted me next, shining into my eyes, blinding me. I blinked slowly, resisting the urge to put a hand in front of my face to block the light.

There was a harsh word, also in Spanish, "Cut the lights!"

My vision returned slowly. I could hear the rumble of heavy engines. I could hear the breathing of the soldiers. There were a lot of them, set up, not quite entering into the Chichen Itza square. Many of them seemed oddly reluctant to step onto the grounds. Talismans and fetishes, crosses and skulls, were clenched in clammy hands. My dark eyes grazed over the lot. None met my eyes, quailing away almost immediately.

"Red Ones!" a sweating soldier called from atop his armoured car, the words were broken Mayan, an attempt at the dialect the Red Court seemed to use. His uniform was stained and he looked supremely uncomfortable. A lesser woman might've called what he was perched in a tank, I knew it for what it was, the Panhard ERC, surplus from France. They had only three, and all I could think was, is that it? What exactly were they trying to accomplish here?

His dark eyes focused on me. After all, there wasn't much else to focus on, I stood alone, both McCoy and the Tengu, who claimed to be Nanashi, hanging back, just within the shadows. I could hear the shallow steps of Liberty in the shadows off to my left, on the opposite side of McCoy.

"I speak," my voice carried down the steps, "For the Red Court."

My words were tinged with the inhumanity of the ancient Maya Kukulkan crooned to me below his temple. My shadow stretched out in front of me, in defiance of the lights in front of me. Moving even though my body was still.

A soldier clenched his trigger, the gun clicked. He hadn't clicked the safety off. I glanced at his direction with only my eyes. My face, clad in the gold mask of the Queen of the Damned, remained resolutely forward. The soldier locked eyes with me for a long moment. His head began to shake, muscles spasming in his neck. I broke our stare and turned my attention back to the man on the Panhard.

He swallowed convulsively, and I commanded, "Speak."

* * *

Half-formed words died in the officer of the _Ejército Mexicano_, he seemed incredibly shaken. Sweat beaded across his brow, illuminated in the harsh yellow light of another Panhard. He was exposed, was one of my first thoughts, first impressions of him. Standing straight, body half out of the cupola, with a light trained on him in the middle of the night.

Any competent enemy could easily dispatch him, it would be easy. A well-placed bullet, even an arrow or an expertly tossed grenade. For a moment, I allowed myself to play out how I would do it in person.

His armoured personnel carrier was less than twenty metres, with luck and surprise I could make that distance in person. The soldiers were skittish, but my discerning eyes, even in the half-gloom could pick out the fact that they all had their safeties on.

They weren't expecting to fight, or if they were they believed they were so outclassed that they wouldn't even have a chance to fight. Or, they expected to be given ample warning? The truth of the matter I suspected was more simple, they were more afraid of one of their soldiers being trigger happy than they were of being able to fight. Such a measure spoke much of the power of the Red Court.

Masquerading as someone else is a subtle art, one which I will admit I had little practical experience. Thankfully, I didn't need to pretend to be someone, in particular, I just needed to act like I represented what appeared to be a global power. A global power that consisted of anthropophagic monstrosities. Vampires.

"Spanish, please, Red Lord?" The officer stuttered out the question in the same broken, badly accented Maya as earlier. He didn't even attempt to use a regional dialect of the existing Maya, instead of the Maya that Kukulkan used. It was also probably the same Mayan that the Red Court used, more likely as an imitation or a mockery of the god they usurped. Even that small detail, refraining from using a common Maya dialect was telling.

That dialect would be the tongue of commoners, and the Red Court would not deign to speak it. Spanish, however, was another language, foreign to the Red Court's origin in the New World. Spanish, at least here, was originally the tongue of conquerors and enslavers, for all that it was currently used by the ordinary populace of South America now. Well, except for Brazil, which spoke Portuguese, but that was unrelated.

"Spanish is permissible," I answered in the self-same tongue, my eyes traveling up to lock onto his, on the way my eyes managed to catch a glimpse of his insignia, and I tacked on, "_Teniente coronel_."

His eyes steadfastly avoided mine, darting away to stare at the ground instead of meeting my gaze. Most likely he was instructed not to show defiance, or hint at his equality. I kind of doubted the Red Court would take nicely to less than subservience in potential prey. About equivalent to lieutenant-colonel in the British military. It was an oddity actually since there weren't nearly enough men here to justify sending a lieutenant-colonel to command them so I surmised it must be for negotiation.

"Red Lord," the officer started again, this time in Spanish, "The liaison is dead in the National Palace!"

Oh. The National Palace? The seat of Mexico's federal executive.

"We've heard rumors," the officer continued, before trailing off at my continued stoic silence.

"Rumors?" McCoy whispered, his rough voice barely carrying in the windless night. The words were intended for me. I could sense his presence, shrouded in shadow and half-hidden by the orange and white stonework of the Parador Turistico de Chichen Itza. I stared down the steps, at the soldiers standing in a crescent formation.

Deny that the Red Court was gone, why? What purpose did it serve?

"Unfortunate," I replied, my voice carrying, "What rumors do you murmur of?"

My heart thrummed, and the shadow twisted again, before me. I could feel a feather-light touch, whether it was satisfaction or irritation I didn't quite know.

"That the Red Court has been dealt a grievous blow?" the officer almost whispered. Left unsaid, I could practically taste the words that would follow if he had less of a self-preservation instinct. I filled in the blanks, they had heard the Red Court were dead. The words of the Wardens upon my first arrival came back in force, that Dresden wiped out the Red Court.

Had that been in totality? The survival of the Red King and the Wardens' own belief that I was Red Court spoke of the idea that some small pockets had survived, even if the greater whole were extinguished.

So the question was, deny, or do not deny? Were the Red Court dead, or were they alive? It was obvious or at least semi-obvious from McCoy's words that South America had suffered under the yoke of the Red Court for some time. Confirming that they were all gone would probably lead to a succession crisis of some kind.

This whole idea was tricky because it wasn't like an ordinary polity dieing. Ordinarily, if such a group was destroyed it would be gradual and others would fill in the gaps gradually. This concept was more like a gang being brutally annihilated all in one day. To follow that analogy, there would be a gang war as the underlings or outsiders strived to come out on top.

The moral choice was to try and nip this in the bud, try and keep anyone from realizing the Red Court was gone. However, by all instances, the Red Court had disappeared in a quite obvious way, with even a death in the National Palace.

Was it even my responsibility to take care of this issue? Well, who was I fooling, I had been breaking things without bothering to pick up the shattered pieces my whole life. What had that brought me? Would I really abdicate all responsibility for my whole life? I had abandoned my father's company to the board, wishing to devote my time to the search for truth. My life was just a long series of abdication in the name of chasing a pipe dream.

This problem wasn't my fault, arguably, but I still felt like I could try and fix it.

"Kukulkan passed judgment," I said, slowly, ponderously, as if I was tasting the words in my mouth as I spoke them.

"The legacy of the defiler was purged, but the influence of Kukulkan remains," I finally answered. There, that should about do it, I thought to myself.

The officer seemed to consider that, shifting in place nervously, he opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, "What of Chichen Itza?"

"What of it?" I asked, "It was the Red Court's, was it not?"

The officer's face twitched, "The people, tourists visit here, Red Lord."

"Make up an excuse," I replied. Meanwhile, my thoughts were racing, it was obvious that couldn't be all, why would McCoy say that they couldn't leave because the place was surrounded if all it was were the army trying to ask about the current whereabouts of the Red Court?

"Honored Red Lord, may I ask about the shipments? They've been delayed," the officer asked finally.

Shipments. Oh, I think I knew what that was. I extended my arms, opening them in a grandiose gesture. My shadow undulated in response, twisting on itself, mouth snapping at the extended shadow of one of the soldiers. None of the soldier's eyes followed the shadow.

"The Red Court does not deal in such banality any longer," I answered. Probably the wrong choice, but there was absolutely no way I could ever hope to maintain some kind of drug network and I kind of doubted the White Council was interested in that either unless I had seriously misjudged them.

The officer's eyes dilated, seemingly against his will. He gave another long twitch. Similarly, several of the soldier's shuddered, seemingly against their will.

Well, that definitely wasn't precisely good, was it? I was already tempted to abdicate whatever responsibility I had just grabbed. I really wasn't cut out for politics.

"Why does the _Ejército Mexicano _continue to menace my-our territory," I asked, it was the final question I had, and one that needed to be answered.

The officer's eyes were still dilated, and he seemed to struggle to think of what to respond, "The rumors, you see."

I narrowed my eyes, urging him to hurry up and explain.

He seemed to realize that his distracted tone wasn't a good idea and clarified, "Red Lord, the rumors say, the rumors say that Chichen Itza was invaded by foul birds and men in grey robes, your enemies."

"The Red Court has made peace with many enemies," I replied, and it was even true, from a certain point of view. The long dark peace of death, apparently.

"Peace, Red Lord?" the officer clarified, looking confused.

I ignored the question, "If that is all, leave, Chichen Itza will return to your guardianship when we are finished with it."

The officer seemed to quail for a moment under my tone before he seemed to rally himself, "Why must the shipments stop?"

"Kukulkan wills it," I replied, my patient suitably thin.

"Don't," McCoy whispered, but he was too late.

"The shipments need to continue, must continue, Red Lord," The officer tried to explain, looking increasingly stressed. His fingers tapped nervously, probably unbidden on the roof of the Panhard.

I stepped forward, moving forward, extruding every inch of predatory grace I had, my shadow swirled on the stone ground before, umbral feathers bristling.

"Such lowly dealings are an affront," I spoke, my voice resonating with the words as I channeled the ancient Mayan tongue, "I shall not suffer them to continue."

The officer's face darkened, but he looked suitably chastised. However, now he eyed me with new eyes, suspicion now clouding his vision.

"Red Lord, where is your retinue?"

Well, I couldn't say I had thought that question would be asked. He was right of course, with the social stratification that the Mayans and by extension the Red Court were probably accustomed too, being alone as someone in high authority was probably pretty unlikely. Now, how was I going to deal with this?

It was a moment not too far removed from staring down the barrel of a gun. Fraught with tension, just waiting to be broken. Throughout my life, I had been in this position in a far more literal manner. I had pistols and rifles pressed to my face, knives, and daggers inches away from skewering my throat. At those times, I had stared death in the face and spat. Usually, those that attempted to kill me died miserably soon after.

"Retinue?" I asked, words infinitely calm. The whites of the officer's eyes were showing, his face pale even under his olive-hued skin. His Adam's apple spasmed as he swallowed. My question was filled with scorn and derision. A question that poked at his, a suggestion that he was stupid, that his question was uncalled for. A mockery.

The truth was that I had no retinue. I wasn't some vampiristic creature that ruled the Red Court. I wasn't a true representative. Still, I did have some things going for me, and that was mainly the knowledge that I did have backup. Uncertain backup in the form of McCoy and his companions.

I wasn't foolish enough to think they were reliable. McCoy in particular seemed to have some deepset mistrust, and even the bird creature, the tengu, seemed to fear me. I could not discard the faint nagging idea that sending me out to negotiate was an attempt at disposing of me.

Of course, I still had one more weapon in my arsenal. One that I had not used, nor leaned on before. Kukulkan.

If you see fit to make me your herald, I intoned within my own head, thinking outward, then act on my behalf.

The air seemed to tighten, the noises around us became profoundly silent. The earlier chirping of crickets ceased. The endless underlying cacophony of insects noises withered and died.

Pop! One of the big searchlights burst, dimming immediately. There was a sickening odor, the wretched stench of rotten meat. The reek of death and decay. The scent of a hunter's lair.

It was not the smell of a sated predator. A predator on the hunt would take care to subdue its scent, it would not do for anything prey-like to catch wind. The smell was the smell of a predator disturbed after a meal. The smell of a predator stumbled upon unaware.

My shadow twisted and grew, becoming deeper until it was like pitch, definition being added. My nose twitched as I smelled urine. The officer's eyes were wide as could be, hand gripped in a death grip around the cupola of the Panhard. The soldiers on the ground stared at the ground, fingers clenched around their guns.

The shadows shifted, almost seeming like scales and feathers moved beneath them, almost threatening the waking world. An unseen malice, drifting just between the real world and the netherworld. Almost present and yet not. Almost absent and yet there.

The sky rumbled, at least that's what I thought for a moment, a deep infrasound, making my heart freeze. The same resonance found in a tiger's roar, to freeze the prey for a moment before them. Before the pounce, before the strike, before death. Before extinction.

"It would be profoundly foolish to think that I am alone," I said, my voice light and breathless, almost mockingly high. It was a cold resolution that held me then, all too easy to slip back into the masque that I adopted so easily after the oil fields. After I thought my friend had been forcefully shuffled from the mortal coil.

This situation wasn't nearly comparable, not really. The compounding danger was really what set me off. Surrounded by a semi-circle of armed men. I've never reacted well to dangerous situations. Well, that wasn't quite true since I had survived everything life saw fit to throw at me. I thrived in danger, but such success was never shared by those that threatened me. From a certain point of view, I did just fine in dangerous circumstances.

Quite frankly, I had no more fucks to give. Look at it from my position. In short order, I had found myself the sole unwitting perpetrator for a biblical scale Armageddon, then thought one of my last true friends in the world was dead. Then there was the whole deal with the Queen of the Damned and Unuratu.

I had walked to my death a free woman, for all that the fate of the world rested on my soldiers. I had accepted the price of death, the price of my sins in life. But I had not died, instead, I endured. An act which was Kukulkan's fault, really. I was bloody tired, and that was exhaustion that wouldn't be removed with a long rest.

The lieutenant colonel shook with some unrestrained emotion, his hands still clenched around the cupola's small handrail, over one of the vehicle's armored periscopes.

"Do you know how many men I've killed?" I asked, tone conversational, voice carrying in the deep abiding silence. A silence that stretched for a few moments, growing until it was almost omnipresent.

"Hundreds… thousands," I continued, voice unyielding, my tone matter-of-fact. Inside me, a little part of me died, hearing those words out loud. Hundreds killed by my hand alone and thousands more indirectly. Hundreds of wonderfully personal kills. Kills where they were close enough I could taste the blood spray in the air after my knife found their arteries. Close enough that I could see the whites of their eyes before my bullets entered their skulls. Close enough that I had to pick shattered pieces of bone and cranial tissue out of my hair and off my axes.

The amount I had killed. The blood staining my hands was greater than I ever feared. There was once a time where I feared having to kill even one person. The thought of a real fight causing me to freeze.

The fear had been forced from me through a trial by fire. First by the wild wolves of Yamatai and then by my first kill, the man who would have raped me. That was where I was reborn. Reborn as a survivor.

It was not in the cannibal's cave, not really. It was there, at the scene of my first direct kill, with blood on my face and under my nails.

"Forgive me, Red Lord," the officer whispered, stuttering, and I got the sense that he would have prostrated himself if he wasn't currently inside the cupola of what was literally an almost-tank. His eyes lingered on my shadow, his face sallow, sweat beading across his brow. There was an avian croak from behind me and the rustle of feathers, but neither watcher made themselves known.

He raised his eyes again, tone plaintive, eyes still dilated. He seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment, a muscle clenching in his neck, before he spoke again, "We have the consignment, it's good stock."

"I don't need it," I replied, voice level.

"But the Red Court has always traded before?" He asked, and I detected a new strain on his voice, a half-tinge of hysteria. Of fear and greed.

"The Red Court does not need it," I replied. Inside, I was starting to suspect that my earlier assessment might've been wrong. The braziers behind me, to the right and left, flickered, sending sparks into the dusky night sky. The sounds of the night were returning slowly, already the crickets had started their chirping.

The officer's face twitched, he rubbed at it, scratching his neck, "But we've already prepared the cover."

"I don't need it. The Red Court doesn't need it. " Whatever it was, I didn't want it. For all that I was somehow determined to fix some issue that I might've caused, I needed to remember that I was only doing this on behalf of McCoy and his trigger-happy friends. I didn't need to perpetuate a national narcotics trade. Even if I accepted whatever he was offering I couldn't even deliver since I had no idea what or where the shipment actually was.

The officers seemed to be rallying again, his own mind trying to inform him that whatever was going on he really needed to back down. There was some other force driving him, that seemed to keep pushing him to confront my words. It was obvious from the way his body and uniform were drenched in sweat that he was beyond terrified of me. The soldiers were likewise terrified for all that they held composure admirably, besides the ones that lost control of their bladders.

Some force seemed to hold them there, when by all indication they should've turned tail and fled into the aether. There was something going on here, some nefarious force that urged them to persist. Perhaps I just wasn't as frightening as I thought?

I inwardly scoffed. I knew a man's breaking point viscerally. I had hunted the most dangerous predators the world knew. I had hunted, and I meant hunted, not fought, countless men, and emerged victorious, matching and exceeding their mettle. The officer was terrified enough that they should've broken, but they had not.

Almost as soon as I made that connection there was a muffled murmur, a nonsense word really, in a language that I didn't know. It was McCoy's voice, and I could practically feel the power under it, somehow interlacing with the syllables. The officer's eyes glazed over and he collapsed in place. The soldiers wavered, eyes clouded for a moment before McCoy murmured again and then they collapsed bonelessly as well. There was a deep rumble, and then my world snapped back into view, I hadn't even realized I was slipping toward sleep myself.

The spotlights burst, all of them going dim, seemingly all at once. The lights on the Panhards died a moment later. I would've been more alarmed but I could still see the soldier's chests move shallowly as they breathed. One's eyelids fluttered but he didn't make any further movement.

This. What was this? I frowned, turning toward McCoy, hand closing around my pistol. I shot him a questioning glance. He stood, face grim, just outside the rings of light created by both braziers. His staff was leveled in the direction of the downed men.

"It appears Liberty was right," he said very quietly, seemingly to himself, "The Fomor have started to move already."

"These men?" I asked, head half-cocked. Combined with the feathers of the Serpent Guard uniform I imagined it made me look like some kind of demented bird-man. Nanashi, the tengu, squawked, and flittered his wings, unsheathing his sword.

"Fomor thralls!" Nanashi clarified in a voice that was more a croak, unsheathing his wakizashi and striding forward. Another bird-man croaked nearby, emerging from the shadows, clad in the distinct Japanese samurai-esque hide armor.

McCoy grunted, seeming to regard the men with a scowl on his face, "They were the Red Court's creatures until recently."

He paused, looking intently, before turning away, toward the shadows again. The tall, dark-skinned figure of Martha Liberty stood there, almost completely shrouded by shadow.

"A strong geasa has been cast on them, it must have compounded with the effects of the Red Court venom," her voice was calm and low, but her gaze was intent and I could pick out her eyes gleaming in the light of the fire.

Geasa? Fomor? Geasa was a plural of geas, and effectively, at least in mythology functioned as a compulsion, even if usually it was a more voluntary vow. However, the way they spoke of geas seemed to imply the more heavy-handed taboo-ification rather than a voluntary vow. Similarly, the use of the word Fomor as a designation was also infinitely interesting. This wasn't a nonsense distinction like 'Red Court.' Fomor, or _Fomóire,_ was a proper name, one for the Irish gods of destruction that crawled from the sea to bring calamity to the people of Ireland. Either some group had co-opted the name or he was implying that ancient sea raiders that were probably mistaken for gods had laid a spell on these Mexican Army soldiers.

One of these options was more likely than the other. At the same time, I couldn't bring myself to discard the idea entirely. My encounters with the supernatural were pretty stark. Yet...

"I'm sorry," I said, voice quite dry, "I fail to see the reason why you just… forced these people into unconsciousness."

"A simple sleep spell," McCoy replied, regarding me with sharp eyes beneath bushy eyebrows.

I smiled, an expression that he could see clearly in the fire's light.

"That wasn't quite what I asked."

McCoy turned to regard me. I couldn't help but note that his stance was unusually solid. Like a boxer or a martial artist. His eyes stared into mine for a split second, then he broke eye-contact just as my vision seemed to swim.

He frowned, but answered succinctly, "We suspected they were part of the Red Court, their addiction has left their minds enfeebled, easy to ensnare. These are just pawns of a larger enemy."

"Your enemy? Or mine?" I asked, arching a brow that he could not see.

McCoy relaxed somewhat letting his black staff tap against the ground lightly, "The enemy of humanity."

My smile was still present but now it was more wry than generally amused, "What makes you think I'm on humanity's side?"

"You're at least partially human," he replied, voice gruff. His tone was level but the way he clutched at his staff was telling. It wasn't a tight grip but it was strained, poised for action.

I regarded him for a moment, not deigning to reply to that. 'Enemy of humanity' was so incredibly broad. It made me think of something Trinity would say, and that really rubbed me the wrong way. My face twitched.

"Maybe," I replied, the words weighted, "Even so, you seem to have this well in hand."

McCoy tapped the ground again, lightly.

"Perhaps," he replied vaguely.

"I've helped you talk to them, I don't see why you need me. Especially since you seemed to take such an offense to them."

McCoy grunted, but didn't say anything.

"You said this place was surrounded," I said, suspicion making my words sharper than they were, "that's why you couldn't act."

"The net is cast broader than I suggested," McCoy replied.

Lies. This was actually an interesting development. A test of my character. Of my intentions? Had he still been testing if I was part of the Red Court?

"A test then?" I asked, and I couldn't help the cold irritation that bled into my question.

McCoy's lips quirked upward, just the smallest amount, "Wizard Liberty is satisfied that you're not a Red Court. If you were it would've been obvious at this point."

"And you?"

McCoy's eyes were hard, even though I didn't have direct eye contact with him.

"I still have suspicions," he finally said, eyes flinty. He tapped the ground in front of him with his staff again.

I sighed, the sound quiet, yet it carried in the still night air. Here I was, playing ball, practically bending over backward, and still, he had the gall to suspect me of belonging to a group whose leader I had murdered?

"Whatever," I replied, irritation bleeding in as for once I acted my age, "I'm going back to bed, and in the morning I'm going to leave this place and never come back." 


End file.
